Page 79 of Man of Lies

“It’s honest work,” he said with a shrug. “I like the hours and the noise. I like that nobody asks too many questions so long as the pour’s good and the lights stay on.”

He stepped in closer, his forehead brushing mine.

“And if I get to end my nights with you again…” he murmured, “then I’d call that the best damn promotion of my life.”

I was barely hanging on, and those words—end my nights with you—nearly shattered what was left of my control. They weren’t slick or teasing, or intended to manipulate me into a certain reaction. They were simple, steady, and true, just like the man who spoke them.

My grip eased in his shirt, but I only pulled away enough to rest my forehead against his chest. “Three weeks,” I croaked, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know if you were gone for good.”

Silas’s hands tightened on my arms. His breath hitched, and that calm composure finally cracked, just enough to let me see inside.

“I didn’t know if you’d still want me,” he admitted gruffly. His voice was filled with brambles, the way a man sounds when he’s baring his soul and not sure if he’ll be punished for it. “Not after so many lies.”

“You could’ve called.”

“I wanted to call,” he insisted, eyes locked on mine. Steady as a heartbeat. “Every goddamn day. Just to hear your voice. But I kept thinking…maybe I was just a break in the storm for you. A place to run when life got loud. I’ve built a dozen lives based on lies, but I’ve never tried to build something real. What if—what if it’s not enough?”

The vulnerability in his question pierced my heart. Silas had always been smooth and confident in a way that made my heart stutter. I loved his smirk and swagger, the teasing laughter inhis eyes, and how he made me feel like the center of his private universe.

But this quieter part of him tugged at me, too. It made me want to gather him in my arms and protect him the way I knew he’d always protect me.

He might’ve lied about his name and past but never in the ways that mattered. Not once. He never lied in the way he looked at me. Never pulled punches when I needed truth. Never made me feel like I had to be anything more—or less—than exactly who I was.

Even when everything else had been smoke and mirrors, the way he saw me had always been real.

And that was what I’d fallen for.

“You were never just a break in the storm,” I said fiercely. “You were the only place I could breathe.”

He blinked, and I saw the fear behind his eyes, the part of him that still didn’t believe in being chosen for whohewas.

I reached up and curled my fingers around his neck, drawing him in just enough to keep him from looking away.

“I don’t care how many lives you lived before this,” I whispered. “This one? The one with me? It’s real, and I’ll choose it—I’ll chooseyou—every damn time.”

His breath caught, and he stared at me in wonder, like maybe some part of him still thought he didn’t get to keep this.

So I repeated it for both of us.

“Every time, Silas.”

His eyes shuttered momentarily, just long enough for me to see what it cost him to let the walls down. But when he opened them again, that deep, dark gaze locked onto me like he was memorizing the moment and storing it somewhere sacred.

Neither of us spoke. We didn’t have to.

He breathed slowly, and some long-held tension bled out of his shoulders. Then he reached for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine with a careful reverence that undid me more than anything else. He looked toward the cabin, then back at me.

“Come inside?” he asked quietly. No command, no taunt. Just hope.

I nodded once, already moving. We crossed the porch together, hands still joined, the old boards creaking beneath our steps.

Inside, the cabin smelled of cedar and strong coffee. Silas had already started to shape the space with his hands, his habits, and his particular kind of order. It was modest but solid, the kind of place that held heat in the winter and cooled slowly in the summer. It looked like him. Felt like him, too: sharp edges worn down by use, quiet strength tucked into every corner.

But it was the details that caught me. Two mugs were turned upside down, waiting beside a coffee pot. A spare set of hooks by the door, and an open coat closet, only partly claimed. It felt like someone had taken the first steps to build a life here, but left room for someone else to step into it.

“You settling in?” I asked weakly.

“Trying,” he said, then tilted his head curiously and added, “There’s space here if you want it, blue eyes.”

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