He shifts slightly, his young face thoughtful as his gaze drops to the scrape on Silas's knee.
"My mom says Omegas are fragile and soft."
The words linger between them, light as dandelion seeds drifting through the golden afternoon.
Silas blinks. Slowly. The motion is unhurried, deliberate. Then his fingers rise, drawn by a quiet, unspoken curiosity. His fingertips brush against Ellis's lashes, so lightly it's barely a touch, barely a presence—just the faintest whisper of warmth against his skin.
Ellis flinches, instinctively pulling back.
"What are you doing?"
Silas tilts his head. His expression is innocent, untouched by the weight of the question. As though the answer should be obvious. As though he doesn't understand why Ellis would even ask.
Ellis frowns, his voice sharper now, edged with the frustration of a boy who is used to being understood and finds it deeply unsettling when he is not.
"I'm speaking to you. Don't you have a tongue in your mouth?"
