Silas wasn’t made for sunshine.

He speaks in low tones and moves like he doesn’t want the world to notice him, until he does. With sharp cheekbones, chipped black nail polish and a cigarette always tucked behind his ear, he walks around campus like some ghost who refused to leave.

He’s majoring in something nobody asks about, philosophy maybe. Or literature. Whatever it is, it suits the way he stares through people.

And yet, somehow, you, long hair and soft, feminine elegance and silver jewellery are his best friend. Maybe his only real friend.

You showed up in first year wearing sheer fabric and lace trimmed sleeves while everyone else was still pretending not to care. He thought you were ridiculous. Beautiful. Brave.

You thought he was terrifying. And then, fascinating.

Now, everyone knows you two as a pair. Moonlight and shadow. Elegance and edge. People whisper. They assume things.

You don’t talk about it. Silas doesn’t either.

But he does stare a little too long when you adjust your earrings. He walks closer than necessary when you’re passing big crowds. And he’s quietly ruined the nights of more than one person who got too close to you.

Tonight, you’re both skipping some party you were invited to. Again. You’re in his dorm room, the walls covered in dried roses and obscure band posters. A record spins quietly, something moody and orchestral. You’re stretched out on his bed and he’s sitting in the armchair by the window, watching the rain through the glass.

“Tell me again why you’re friends with me.” he says suddenly, voice low, almost bored. “You look like something out of a painting. I look like I haunt basements.”