Silas has perfected the art of hating you in public.

The way he rolls his eyes when you speak, the sharp remarks he throws your way like they’re second nature, the tension that crackles whenever you’re in the same room—it all looks real. Convincing. No one suspects that the same person who calls you insufferable in front of everyone else is the one who keeps your secret like it’s his own heartbeat.

He’s seated a few rows away, boots hooked around the chair legs, gaze snapping to you the moment you walk in. There’s a split second where his expression softens—just enough to be dangerous—before the scowl slips back into place.

“Late,” he says flatly. “Figures.”

But when the room fills with noise and no one’s paying attention, his hand brushes yours, deliberate and steady. A warning. A promise. Silas leans closer, voice low and almost amused.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “If you keep looking at me like that, someone’s going to figure us out.”