Chapter 157: I Just Wanted To Show You My Love... But I Don’t Know How...

The scent of the soup curls through the kitchen like something alive—warm, rich, insistent. It doesn’t just fill the room; it seeps into the stillness, wrapping itself around everything, settling into the space between my ribs.

I sit at the dining table, leaning back in my chair. My posture is a wall—calm, detached, unreadable. I tell myself I’m calm. I tell myself I’m unaffected. But the warmth of the soup pulls at me, making my mouth water in a way I can’t control, can’t explain. My stomach clenches—not with nausea, but with hunger. A hunger I’ve been ignoring for days.

It’s been days since I’ve eaten properly. Every time I’ve tried, the nausea came too quickly, too violently, and I ended up doubled over, emptying everything I’d forced down, my body rejecting every bite I gave it. I’d stopped trying. It was easier to let the hunger fade into numbness.

But this smell...

It doesn’t make me sick. It makes me want. It makes me remember what it feels like to be full.

I glance toward the kitchen counter from the corner of my eye. Silas stands there, reheating the soup, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s performing a ritual he’s practiced a thousand times. A soft smile rests on his lips, as if he’s exactly where he wants to be. His hands move with quiet confidence, treating the bowl as though it were something precious, something worthy of patience and care.

I watch him for a moment longer than I should. The way the warm light brushes against the edges of his face. The way his fingers curl around the ladle with effortless familiarity. The way he doesn’t seem to notice me watching—or perhaps he simply pretends not to.

No matter what I say—no matter how harsh my words—nothing seems to reach him. Nothing seems to shake him. I wonder what lies beneath that quiet calm. Who is he really? What does he truly want from me?

He looks up.

I quickly look away, pretending to stare at the glass wall in front of me, where snow drifts quietly beyond the warm glow of the garden lights.

His smile widens just a little, like he knows I was watching all along.

He pours the soup into a bowl, the broth catching the light in shades of amber and gold. Then he walks toward me, his steps unhurried and steady, and sets the bowl in front of me with gentle care.

"Please eat."

His voice is soft. Not demanding. Not pleading. Just... there.

Steam curls from the bowl in slow, deliberate spirals, carrying the rich fragrance of herbs and broth, of something simmered with quiet care.

I glance down at it, then look away, crossing my arms tighter over my chest, my jaw set.

"Now leave."

He doesn’t move.

Instead, he pulls the chair closer and sits beside me—so close our shoulders nearly brush. I can feel the warmth radiating from him, the quiet certainty of his presence. I turn to him, my voice sharp.

"What are you doing? Didn’t you say if I ate, you’d leave?"

His voice is calm, unhurried.

"But you haven’t even tasted it yet."

A frustrated sigh slips from my lips. I pick up the spoon, my fingers curling around the handle with reluctant resolve, and lift a spoonful toward my mouth.

Before it reaches my lips, his hand gently catches my wrist.

"Ellis... you’ll burn yourself."

His fingers are warm against my skin.

I look at him, my expression flat.

"I’m not a child. Let go."

He carefully takes the spoon from my hand. He blows on it once, then holds it toward my lips.

I don’t move. I only glare at him.

"Why do you always try to get on my nerves? I’m not a child who needs protection. Give me the spoon back. I can eat by myself."

His expression softens. His shoulders sink just a fraction before he lowers his gaze and quietly returns the spoon to the bowl.

"I’m sorry."

His voice is barely above a whisper.

I take the spoon back. I blow on it myself. Then I eat.

"I didn’t mean to make you angry." His voice is quiet behind me. "I just wanted to show you my love... but I don’t know how."

The warmth spreads across my tongue, then slips slowly down my throat, settling deep inside my chest. Rich. Comforting. Familiar. Every spoonful melts away another layer of the cold that has been clinging to me for days.

It’s perfect. It’s delicious.

It’s the first thing I’ve eaten in days that doesn’t make me feel sick.

"Can you please give me a chance?" His voice reaches me again, softer this time.

I take another spoonful.

Then another.

His words become nothing more than distant sounds, fading into the background. Right now, there is only the soup—the warmth filling the emptiness inside me, chasing away the hunger, silencing the nausea that has haunted me for days.

Finally, I set the spoon down in the empty bowl. The ceramic clinks softly against the wood. For the first time in days, my stomach is full, and I feel no urge to be sick. I lean back in my chair, my body heavy with something dangerously close to contentment.

Silas watches me in silence. A soft, tentative smile touches his lips, as if he’s afraid to disturb the fragile peace that has settled between us.

"Do you like it?"

I don’t answer. I barely acknowledge him. He doesn’t seem to mind.

His hand rises, his fingertips gently brushing my lower lip, wiping away a trace of soup I hadn’t noticed.

"Do you want more?"

I push his hand away, my voice clipped.

"No. Just—"

The words die on my tongue.

A strange dizziness washes over me. Not painful. Just... wrong.

The room sways ever so slightly, as though the floor has shifted beneath me. The edges of my vision soften, blurring into the warm glow of the lights. My limbs grow heavier with every passing second.

I look at him, suspicion flashing through the haze.

"What the hell... did you put in the soup?"

Silas slowly rises to his feet. The chair scrapes softly across the floor, the sound oddly distant.

I try to stand. I can’t. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy.

Without a word, he slips one arm beneath my knees and the other around my back, lifting me effortlessly into his arms.

The warmth of his body seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt. My cheek rests against his chest, and beneath my ear, his heartbeat echoes in a slow, steady rhythm.

My fists tighten weakly around his shirt, clinging to the last fragments of consciousness, to my anger, to myself.

But they slip away...

And darkness quietly claims me.