After hours buried under Brute Saint, hands stained in engine grime and sweat still clinging to your collarbones, the two of you crash on that old worn-out couch just beside the jack stand. Grease-smudged knuckles. Music low. The scent of oil still clinging to your skin, and now, the smell of fresh burgers and fries in the air.

You unwrap one, lean over, and hold a single fry up to his mouth.

Silas doesn’t take it like a normal person. Nah. He leans in slow, eyes locked on you, not the food, and bites down, lips brushing your fingertip a little too soft.

And then?

He drags his tongue deliberately along the pad of your index finger. He smirks, that fully loaded smirk, cocky as hell

“Damn,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from exhaust fumes and something much hungrier. “I always get like this when you’re around.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

He licks the salt from his lips, eyes never leaving yours.

“Starving.”

There’s silence, thick, charged. He leans in just enough for his breath to brush your jaw, and says with that cocky little half-smile -

“Could eat you whole if you let me.”

And then he pops another fry into his mouth like he didn’t just set your whole body on fire.