It was a weekend. The apartment had grown quieter in a way Ayla hadn't noticed at first.
Not emptier, never emptier, but quieter, as though the walls themselves had learned how to hold their breath. The hours stretched gently instead of clawing at her chest, and even when Silas was away longer than usual, the waiting didn't feel as sharp as it once had. It still existed, that familiar ache, but it no longer screamed. It lingered instead, low and constant, like a distant hum she had learned to live with.
That afternoon, she was sitting on the living room floor, back resting against the sofa, sunlight spilling lazily across the rug. She had been folding laundry, though most of it now lay forgotten beside her. Her attention kept drifting to the door, then away again, as if she were scolding herself for the habit. She didn't want to be like this, counting time by footsteps, measuring calm by his presence, but wanting and changing were two very different things.
When the sound of the key finally turned in the lock, her body reacted before her mind did.
She didn't stand. She didn't rush forward. But something inside her loosened, just slightly, like a thread easing its grip. She listened to the familiar rhythm of his movements, the door closing, shoes placed neatly aside, and told herself, again, that this was normal. That people noticed when others came home. That this didn't mean anything more.
Silas stepped into the living room carrying a small box.
At first, she thought it was work-related. Files, maybe. Something he hadn't wanted to leave in the car. She barely glanced up until she heard the sound, a soft, broken mewl, uncertain and thin.
Ayla froze.
She lifted her head slowly, heart stuttering as she saw the box move.
"Silas…?" Her voice came out quiet, almost afraid.
He stopped a few steps away, careful, steady, as if even walking too fast might disturb whatever was inside. He knelt and set the cardboard box down, opening the flaps just enough for her to see.
Two tiny faces peeked out.
They were impossibly small, too small to be real, she thought for a moment. One gray, one pale cream, pressed close together as if they had learned already that warmth was something you didn't survive without.
Ayla's breath left her in a soft, broken sound.
"Where…?" She didn't even finish the question.
"They were near the building," Silas said simply. "Someone left them."
Her hands trembled as she reached forward, stopping just short of touching them. She looked up at him, brown eyes wide and uncertain, as though asking permission without words.
"They're safe," he added. "I took them to the clinic. They're healthy."
The fact that he had done that—quietly, thoroughly—hit her harder than the kittens themselves.
She nodded, swallowing.
"Can I…?"
"Yes."
That was all.
She lifted them carefully, settling back against the sofa as the kittens squirmed and then slowly relaxed against her warmth. One immediately began to purr, a soft, uneven vibration that made her chest ache in a way that felt almost painful.
She laughed without realizing it.
A real laugh. Soft, surprised, trembling at the edges.
"You told me before that you like cats," Silas said looking at her. " So I adopted them,."
"Is it ok to adopt both," she murmured after a moment, eyes tracing their tiny forms.
Silas answered without pause. "Yes, So one won't be left out."
The words were plain. Practical. Nothing emotional about them at all.
And yet Ayla's throat tightened as if he had reached inside her and touched something fragile.
She didn't reply. She just nodded and hugged the kittens a little closer, afraid that if she spoke, she would cry—and she didn't want to ruin this moment with tears.
That evening, the apartment felt different.
Not louder. Not busier.
Just… fuller.
Ayla sat curled on the sofa, blanket wrapped loosely around her legs, one kitten asleep against her collarbone, the other tucked into the crook of her arm. She barely moved, breathing shallowly so as not to wake them. The sky outside darkened gradually, the lights in the city flickering on one by one.
She kept glancing at the door.
She noticed herself doing it and looked away, embarrassed even though no one was watching.
You're fine, she told herself. You're not alone.
When Silas returned later than usual, she didn't stand. She didn't speak. She only looked up, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that single point where his gaze rested on her.
He stopped.
Just for a second.
It was subtle, so subtle she might have imagined it, but his movement stilled, his attention fixed on her and the small, sleeping weight in her arms. Ayla felt suddenly self-conscious, like she had been caught revealing something she hadn't meant to show.
"They fell asleep," she said quietly. "I didn't want to move."
He nodded. "That's fine."
She watched him carefully as he crossed the room, noticing the way his steps slowed near the sofa, the way his eyes lingered just a moment longer than necessary. He said nothing more just left with the cat essentials he brought for the kittens.
That night, she slept deeper than she had in months.
Not because her fears had vanished, they hadn't, but because they had been pushed aside, gently, by something warm and breathing and real. She woke once, disoriented, panic rising out of habit, only to feel soft fur beneath her chin and the steady presence of the apartment around her.
And somewhere beyond the door, Silas.
She exhaled and went back to sleep.
Days passed like this.
Ayla smiled more. Not brightly, not openly, but enough that Lena noticed, enough that even Daniel commented once, surprised, "You should smile more,."
She felt stronger.
She was eating better. Sleeping longer. Laughing softly at small things, clumsy paws, crooked tails, the way the kittens followed her from room to room like she was something essential.
She told herself this meant she was healing.
What she didn't notice was how her calm still hinged on Silas's presence, how the kittens soothed her anxiety but didn't replace the quiet certainty she felt only when he was home. She waited for him still. Not pacing, not panicking, but waiting all the same.
One afternoon, Lena crouched beside her as Ayla played with the kittens, a piece of string dancing between small, frantic paws.
"They've attached themselves to you," Lena said lightly.
Ayla smiled. "I think I attached myself to them first."
Lena laughed, warm and easy. "That's usually how it works."
She watched Ayla for a moment longer, her tone still casual when she added, "You seem happier."
"I feel happy," Ayla replied honestly. "When he's here… it's happier."
The words slipped out naturally, without hesitation.
Lena's smile didn't change—but her eyes flicked briefly toward Silas, standing near the window.
Later, while Ayla washed her hands in the kitchen, Lena spoke quietly.
"She's calmer," she said neutrally. "But her sense of safety is narrowing."
Silas didn't answer.
Lena continued gently, "Just don't let her world get too small."
When Ayla returned, kittens tucked securely against her chest, she was unaware of the weight those words carried. She only knew that Silas looked at her for a moment longer than usual before turning away.
That night, as she lay in bed, she waited for the sound of his door closing before letting herself sleep.
She told herself she was stronger now.
And in many ways, she was.
But strength, she was learning without realizing it, could look a lot like quiet dependence when it grew unchecked.
And Silas he stayed silent, steady, unmoving, remained the center around which everything else slowly began to orbit.