Her palm pressed lightly over my heartbeat.
Steady.... Fierce.... Alive.
Her breath hitched "What if I lose you too?"
"You won't" My voice came firm, unshakable, even though fear gnawed quietly at the edges of my certainty "I'll bleed, I'll fight, I'll burn this whole city down if I have to—but you won't lose me."
For a long moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just her hand on my chest, her eyes locked to mine, her trembling wrapped in the fragile intimacy of survival.
Finally, she exhaled, the sound heavy with exhaustion and surrender. She slid down the wall until she was sitting fully, her knees drawn up, her face burying briefly against them.
"Then show me how," she whispered "Show me how to stop running. How to stop being his shadow."
Her words carved into me—half plea, half challenge.
I nodded once, fierce and certain "I will."
The drizzle outside thickened again, but the storm inside the station had shifted. It was no longer only fear that hung between us, but the raw, fragile thread of a bond neither of us could deny.
And for the first time since the night began, Aria's trembling eased.
Not gone but different.
A tremble not just of fear.
But of trust.
The rain outside turned steady, soft but relentless. It drummed against the broken glass of the bus stop windows, filling the silence that stretched between us.
Aria sat curled against the wall, her eyes half-hidden beneath damp strands of hair. The harshness she'd worn like armor had cracked open in the last hour, and now she looked smaller somehow—not weak, but raw. Like someone who had been running for so long she'd forgotten what it meant to stop.
I shifted closer, careful. The space between us had become charged since she'd pressed her hand against my chest. I could still feel the ghost of her touch there, echoing.
"Close your eyes," I murmured.
She glanced up at me, brow furrowing "Why?"
"Just do it."
She hesitated, then obeyed.
"Now breathe," I said. "Not shallow...deep. In through your nose, hold it… and let it out slow."
She did, though the first exhale came shaky, uneven.
"Again," I whispered.
The second breath stretched longer. The third steadier. With each one, I watched the tightness in her shoulders ease, the frantic rise and fall of her chest slow.
Her lips parted, releasing a faint sigh "Why does that help?"
Because fear makes you forget the simplest thing." I leaned closer, my voice low "It steals your breath first. Take it back, and he takes less of you."
Her lashes fluttered open. In the dim light, her eyes glistened—tired, vulnerable, but clearer.
"You sound like you've done this before," she whispered.
"Maybe," I admitted, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth "Maybe I've just been waiting for someone worth teaching."
Her lips curved, faint but real. The first smile I'd seen that wasn't born from irony or defiance. It struck harder than any confession.
She leaned back against the wall, studying me quietly "You really don't know what you're getting yourself into."
"Maybe not," I said. "But I know this—Victor doesn't get to decide who you are....not anymore."
Her throat worked, as if swallowing back words too dangerous to speak. Then slowly, almost hesitantly, she reached for my hand.
The contact was tentative, but once her fingers brushed mine, she threaded them through as though testing what it felt like not to let go.
"Then don't let me fall," she whispered.
I tightened my grip, steady and sure "Never."
For a while, we sat in silence, listening to the rain but it wasn't the silence of fear anymore. It was softer.... Closer.
Her head drifted until it rested lightly against my shoulder.
I stayed still, not daring to break the fragile peace, even as my pulse betrayed me with its restless rhythm.
The storm could rage outside. Victor could plot in the shadows. For this one stolen moment, she was safe in my arms.
And I realized—I wasn't just fighting for her anymore.
I was fighting with her.
The storm outside refused to let up. Water cascaded off the roof, seeping through cracks in the broken windows, puddling on the bus stop floor. The world beyond was blurred, but inside, time seemed suspended.
Aria's head rested against my shoulder, her breathing slow and even, the calm I'd coaxed into her finally taking hold. I didn't move, didn't dare disturb her fragile surrender.
But then, after a long stretch of silence, she whispered:
"You don't understand who he is."
Her voice was quiet but sharp, like a knife dragged across glass.
I tilted my head slightly toward her "Then tell me."
Her fingers tightened around mine. For a long moment, I thought she'd stay silent. Then, with a breath that trembled, she began.
"Victor doesn't just want me… He owns people. Their fear, their debts, their lives. He builds cages that you can't see until you're already locked inside. That's what he did to me."
Her voice cracked, but she pushed through.
"At first, it was charm. Attention. He knew what I wanted to hear, what I needed when I didn't even know it myself and then, slowly, he took things... Friends...Choices.... My voice."
She leaned away slightly, as if ashamed.
"I stayed too long. Long enough that walking away wasn't just leaving—it was war and people who go to war with him don't come back."
Her words hung heavy in the damp air. My chest tightened, not from fear but from rage. Rage at a man I'd never met but already hated more than anything.
"Aria…" I reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair from her face "You're not in his cage anymore."
Her eyes snapped up, sharp "You don't get it. He'll come for me. He always comes."
"Then let him," I said firmly "Let him try because this time, he doesn't face you alone."
She stared at me, disbelief flickering in her gaze "Why? Why would you risk yourself for me? You don't even know me."
I leaned closer, my forehead brushing hers. "Maybe not everything. Not yet but I know enough. Enough to see you. To know you're worth it."
Her breath caught. The space between us pulsed with something raw, something neither of us could run from anymore.
Slowly, her hand lifted, fingertips brushing against my jaw. The gesture was tentative, trembling, but it was hers. A choice.
"You shouldn't…" she whispered "If you stay, he'll destroy you too."
"Then let him try," I repeated, my voice low, unwavering "Because he'll have to go through me first."
For a heartbeat, we just stayed like that—her hand on my face, my hand on hers, both of us suspended on the edge of something neither had dared to reach for.
And then, for the first time, her lips brushed mine.
It wasn't desperate or frantic. It was fragile, almost hesitant, a whisper of connection in the middle of the storm but the moment it happened, everything shifted.
The storm outside was deafening, but inside, the only sound that mattered was the quiet shudder of her breath as she pulled back just enough to look at me.
Her eyes glistened—not with fear this time, but with something dangerously close to hope.
"I don't know if I can survive this," she confessed.
I cupped her face gently, steadying her "Then don't survive it alone."
Her lips parted, trembling with unshed words and then, finally, she nodded.
Not a surrender.
A beginning.
The storm broke just before sunrise.
The pounding rain softened into a drizzle, leaving the city washed and shimmering beneath the first weak light of dawn. The streets glistened, empty and hollow, as though the world itself had been scrubbed clean of last night's shadows.
Aria shifted beside me, stirring from the fragile rest she'd finally allowed herself. Her head slipped from my shoulder, and she blinked against the muted light creeping through the cracked glass of the bus stop shelter.
For a moment, she looked younger—unguarded, the lines of exhaustion and fear softened by sleep but then her eyes opened fully, and the tension returned, the weight of reality pressing down again.
"You didn't sleep at all," she murmured, her voice low and rough with fatigue.
"I didn't need to," I said, though the ache in my body betrayed the truth. My gaze stayed fixed on the quiet street outside "I wanted to keep watch."
She studied me, her brows knitting "You shouldn't… put yourself at risk like that."
I turned to her, meeting her eyes with quiet conviction "I told you.... I'm not going anywhere."
Her lips parted as though to argue, but then she stopped. Something in my tone—or maybe in her own heart—kept the words from leaving her mouth.
Instead, she pulled her knees closer, wrapping her arms around them. She sat quietly for a moment, then whispered, "I dreamed of him."