Chapter 7 – The Silence Between Lies

POV: Seraphina Marcell

For a moment, I didn’t know if I’d actually said his name or only dreamed it.

The word had slipped out of me like a secret, quiet, trembling, almost accidental.

“Alex…”

The sound of my voice startled even me.

He turned slowly toward the door, the faint light from the bathroom washing one side of his face in gold while the other was shadow. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes, like a flash of panic, guilt, maybe even fear.

But I told myself I imagined it. Because when you love someone too much, your mind becomes their defense lawyer. You argue against your own instincts just to keep believing.

He gave a small, crooked smile, the kind that softened all my suspicions.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and calm, though I caught the roughness at the edges.

“I thought I heard you talking,” I said, my tone light, teasing. “To yourself again?”

He let out a quiet chuckle, walking toward me. “Something like that.”

His gaze softened, darkened. “Couldn’t sleep either.”

The air changed between us. Heavy. Warm. Familiar.

When his hand brushed my cheek, my skin burned.

I should have asked who he’d been talking to.

But then he tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and whispered, “Come back to bed,” all I could do was nod.

The bathroom light snapped off. The room dimmed, the moonlight spilling through the blinds painting thin silver lines across his bare chest. The world outside disappeared, just the hum of the city in the distance, the faint rhythm of our breaths, the quiet pull of gravity drawing us together again.

He sat beside me on the bed, eyes locked on mine.

“Seraphina,” he murmured, my name falling from his lips like a sigh.

My heart fluttered at the sound of it, that soft ache that felt too much like worship.

He kissed me slowly, almost reverently, as if he was trying to memorize the shape of forgiveness. His lips lingered against mine until my thoughts dissolved, replaced by the simple pulse of want and warmth.

I could feel the apology he didn’t say in the way his hands moved, careful, deliberate, tracing the outline of my back as if I’d break if he held me wrong. His breath brushed my skin, and I felt his heartbeat against my chest, fast, uneven, desperate.

I deepened the kiss, pulling him closer, craving more of that dizzying closeness. His fingers tangled in my hair, his other hand pressing gently against the small of my back, drawing me flush against him.

He exhaled my name between kisses, like he needed to remind himself I was real.

Like he needed to believe he wasn’t somewhere else, with someone else.

The warmth between us built slowly, breath against breath, touch after touch, until the air itself felt alive. His lips trailed along my jaw, down my neck, pausing at the spot that always made me shiver. I gasped softly, and his grip tightened, a sound escaping his throat that made my pulse quicken.

“Still thinking too much,” he whispered against my skin.

“Maybe,” I breathed.

“Then stop.”

The words were both a command and a plea. And I did.

I stopped thinking.

I let him guide me, let his hands and lips and quiet murmurs blur the edges of every question that had dared to form. The world outside our bodies didn’t exist anymore. Just warmth, rhythm, need, the quiet, dangerous kind of intimacy that feels too close to love to tell the difference.

I memorized the way his breath hitched when I whispered his name. The way he cupped my face like he was trying to convince himself I belonged only to him.

I felt the tremor in his touch, the small, sharp pang of guilt he tried to hide with passion.

But I ignored it. Because love makes blindness feel like safety.

When his forehead rested against mine, our breaths tangled in the dark.

“Tell me you’re here,” he murmured.

“I’m here,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the words.

He smiled faintly, his lips brushing mine again, softer now, and slower, a rhythm that said stay.

Time slipped by unnoticed. Our bodies spoke in the silence that followed, movements tender, unhurried, each one heavier with emotion than the last. His hand slid up my arm, fingertips trailing warmth, until he found my hand and laced our fingers together.

“You, okay?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

I smiled; eyes half-closed. “I just… don’t want this to end.”

“It won’t,” he said too quickly, the lie sweetened by the tone he used.

And I wanted it so badly to be true that I didn’t notice the hesitation behind his smile.

He kissed me again, slower this time, his thumb brushing across my lips like punctuation.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was full and heavy with everything we didn’t say.

I lay against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. My fingers traced patterns along his skin, and he hummed low in his throat, content, tired, maybe relieved.

I didn’t ask why his phone had buzzed.

I didn’t ask who he’d been whispering to in the dark.

Because if I asked, the truth might answer.

The glow from his phone blinked again on the nightstand, a small flash that felt like a warning.

He noticed my eyes flick toward it and smirked, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice soft and teasing. “You’re thinking again.”

“Can’t help it.”

“Then don’t.” His hand brushed a lazy path down my arm. “Not tonight.”

He kissed me again, and I gave in all over, the warmth of his body swallowing every thought, every doubt. His lips moved with purpose, almost desperate, and I clung to him like he was the only thing that kept me from falling apart.

We lay there afterward in a quiet that felt almost holy, skin against skin, breath mingling, the night too still.

I thought maybe that was love. Maybe that was what it was supposed to feel like, this burning, this ache, this pretending.

And then my phone buzzed.

Once.

Then twice.

The sound sliced through the calm like a blade.

I turned my head slowly, heart pounding. The glow of the screen lit up the dark.

Mom.

The name stared back at me, too bright, too sudden.

It was 2:04 a.m.

My heart missed a beat.

The air felt colder somehow, the room smaller.

I hesitated, hand hovering just above the phone, breath caught in my throat.

Because I didn’t know what scared me more: what my mother might say…or what I’d see if I looked away from him.