Page 66 of Runaways

He shrugs. "I didn't want to go."

"Yeah, well…good for you. That was a smart choice. I look and feel stupid, so I'll see you later."

"I don't think you look stupid," he says. "You look really pretty."

"You feel obligated to say that because of what I said."

"I don't say things I don't mean, Noah."

"Thanks…I guess."

"Do you want to hang out? I ordered pizza, and I have more weed."

"Um, I don't know. I don't really feel like it."

"If you go home and sulk, they win."

I guess he's kind of right. He's always right.

"Yeah, okay. Can I pick what we watch?"

He and Tate are always picking horror movies that end up giving me nightmares for days.

"Sure. If you tell me a secret."

"I'm pretty sure you know all my secrets."

"I'm sure there's something. I'll let you think about it. Come on," Silas says, opening the door to his apartment.

We spend the next couple of hours in his room, eating, smoking, and watching some wilderness survival show, carefully curated from the limited list of shows on Silas's watch list that won't terrify me or make me cry in my delicate mental state.

"You know what I like about when it's just us?" he asks.

"What?"

"It's quiet," he says.

I laugh a little. "Yeah. Tate and Mia are never quiet."

"Fucking never," he agrees.

"Yeah, we're both only children with single moms, though." I never knew my dad, and Silas never got along with his. His mom gave up and stopped forcing Silas to spend time with him a couple of years ago. "We're used to quiet. I think maybe they're just…not. It is really nice, though."

I realize Silas never made me tell him what happened at prom or why I left. It's one of the many reasons I'm so grateful for him. I think he's misunderstood like I am, but unlike with me, I think it's intentional. Silas would rather be the football player you wouldn't want to fuck with—the one who snapped some other guy's arm inhalf like it was nothing because he had a bad day, and would do worse to you if you gave him a reason. He likes the space it gives him, and the girls like it, too.

Silas's reputation might also be the only thing standing between Tate and the actualization of his death wish.

But I know he writes poetry in that notebook on his nightstand, and there are flecks of gold in his dark eyes when the sunlight hits them. Someone with golden eyes can't be anything but good.

I smile, reaching for him and wrapping my hand around the back of his neck. "You might be my favorite person in the world—you know that?" I tell him, tracing his hairline with my thumb. Silas is the kind of guy who gets his hair cut every two weeks and keeps it in a tight fade. Unlike with Tate, it isn't unusual for the two of us to touch; it's easy.

But his jaw tenses a little now. It confuses me; I watch his throat as he swallows, his gaze dropping to my tits, and I freeze. While it isn't abnormal for me to touch Silas like this or lie in his bed with him, the way he looks at me now—that's not normal.

His eyes roam over my body before landing on my lips. He parts his own, and I think for a second that he's going to kiss me.

"I could do it, you know," he says.

"…Do what?" I ask, slowly pulling my hand away.

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