Third Person's POV Freya stepped out of the bathroom and immediately noticed Silas sitting by the bedside, his gaze fixed on the wooden-jasper bracelet on his left wrist. The gift she had painstakingly chosen for him-once meant for his birthday-now seemed almost tragic, transformed into a token of their parting. A strange heaviness rose in Freya's chest. She had never imagined that a simple gift could carry such weight. Part of her wanted to look away, yet another part was drawn closer, yearning for some fragment of what they had lost. Silas lifted his head slowly, as if hearing her footsteps. "Sleeping?" he asked, his voice low, rough with fatigue. "Yeah… let's sleep," Freya replied, forcing her voice calm, though her heart pounded in her chest. "How… can you sleep? Do you want to hold hands?" "Let's hold hands," Silas said steadily. Freya nodded, pulled back the covers, and lay down first. Her body pressed into the mattress, but her eyes kept catching his form. Silas gave her a long, deep glance, one that seemed to pierce to her very soul, before he lay down beside her. Slowly, his hand found hers, fingers intertwining with careful precision. This time, Freya did not pull away. Not an inch. The warmth of his skin against hers, the steady pulse beneath his palm-it was a tether, grounding and undeniably safe. His lips curved into a faint, subtle smile. Around them, the soft hush of the room wrapped like a cocoon, and Freya murmured almost instinctively, "Sleep now." Silas's eyelids drooped, closing against the world, and the tension in his body softened, melting into the quiet rhythm of their shared presence. Only here, beside her, could he find real rest. Time passed quietly, the kind of time that felt both eternal and fleeting. Freya stayed still, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the light tremor of his fingers holding hers. Only when she was certain he had drifted into deep sleep did she dare to open her eyes. There he lay, serene for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Freya's chest tightened unexpectedly at the sight. She had never imagined that after their parting, he would sink so deeply into sleepless nights that even medicine could not guarantee rest. Could holding hands like this truly help him sleep? But it was not a permanent solution. She could be here tonight, maybe tomorrow, but she could not always anchor him. Once they returned home, renowned specialists would address his insomnia with precision. This-this was only temporary. Carefully, she slipped her hand from his, mindful not to wake him. She hugged her pillow and blankets, curling up on the sofa. Sharing a bed through the night was no longer something she could commit to. Her gratitude toward him-her recognition of what he had done-was the only reason she allowed him to hold her hand until sleep claimed him. And yet… her heart throbbed with a pang she could not ignore. It was as if it ached for him, though she tried to deny it. She told herself firmly: Do not let yourself care too much. One slip, one feeling too deep, and the lines between them could blur irreparably. Could she ever truly be with him again? Even if he promised no more lies, no more concealment, she would find herself questioning every word, every glance, every gesture. Suspicion would creep in, slowly eroding the self she tried to preserve. That was not the life she wanted. She closed her eyes, forcing herself into the fragile reprieve of sleep. But while she slept, a shadow moved. Silas rose quietly, careful not to disturb her, and made his way to the sofa. His eyes, dark and reflective, lingered on her sleeping form. A bitter ache settled in his chest. Even for repayment, she would not share the same bed with me. Not until morning? He crouched by the sofa, lowering his head so that his presence was close but non-intrusive. His hand hovered near hers, brushing lightly, careful not to wake her. His voice, low and rough, broke the silence. "Freya… what must I do, for you to let me in again?" Morning arrived slowly. When Freya opened her eyes, her gaze landed on Silas's face, framed by the soft chaos of his hair. His dark lashes rested against high cheekbones, his sharp nose and slightly parted lips-a predator at rest, yet achingly human. She felt an almost uncontrollable urge to reach out, to touch him. But reality struck. Last night, she had invited him to stay, and he had been on the bed. Why was he now slouched by the sofa, asleep? She sat up quickly, and his eyes flickered open, caught by her sudden motion. He looked at her with waking clarity, familiar and disarming. "Morning, Freya," he said softly, voice hoarse but steady. "Morning…" she replied, blinking, confused. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be on the bed?" Silas smiled faintly, a wolfish, knowing curve of his lips. "Because I can only sleep properly next to you. Since you're on the sofa… naturally, I'm beside you." She hesitated, recalling the night. "But… you slept on the bed last night, didn't you?" "I did. Until your hand slipped away. Then I woke." His hand found hers again, firm yet gentle. "If you truly want to repay me, don't change your mind halfway. If my sleep is to be uninterrupted… you must hold my hand till dawn."Freya froze, caught between exasperation, gratitude, and the warmth creeping along her chest. The moment stretched, tense and intimate, until the sudden ring of the doorbell shattered the fragile stillness. Freya reluctantly pulled her hand away. "I'll get it," she said, moving quickly toward the door, her mind still entangled with the lingering presence of Silas beside her.