Mira woke to a ceiling that wasn't hers.
She lay still, blinking slowly, waiting for the world to settle into something recognizable, but it didn't. The lines above her were unfamiliar—too clean, too symmetrical, lacking the small imperfections she had grown used to.
The shadows fell at angles that didn't match the way morning light usually crept into her room, and the quiet felt deeper, heavier, as though the walls themselves were built to keep sound from traveling.
It took her a few seconds to realize that something was wrong.
Her gaze drifted around, taking in the unfamiliar details: the expanse of the room, the muted colors, the heavy drapes pulled just enough to let in a filtered wash of pale light. Everything looked deliberate, controlled, arranged with a precision that made the space feel less like a bedroom and more like a sanctuary for someone who valued order above comfort.
Her body protested the moment she tried to move, as if it had been waiting for her mind to wake before reminding her of everything it had endured. The pain arrived in slow, unmistakable waves—first a dull ache, then sharper twinges that made her inhale carefully, testing how much movement she could manage without setting something off.
Every inch of her muscle felt sore.. Her ribs were tight, each breath pulling against tender places she hadn't noticed while running, and her knees felt stiff, heavy, reluctant to bend. Even her shoulders, usually so steady, felt weighed down, as though gravity had decided to make an example of her.
Yesterday was catching up to her.
The impact. The fall. The street.
The memories returned in fragments—sensations instead of images. The rough scrape of pavement, the jolt of collision, the way her arms had locked around the boy's small body without thought, the sound of the world rushing too fast. None of it came back cleanly. It flickered at the edges of her mind, incomplete but insistent, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment as if that might keep it from assembling itself into something sharper.
She pushed herself upright slowly, bracing one hand against the mattress, moving with the kind of caution she usually reserved for much worse injuries. A quiet hiss of breath escaped her when her ribs protested again, and she paused, steadying herself before continuing.
Then she froze.
The room came into focus all at once, and with it, understanding.
This was Cassian's room.
Her eyes swept over the space, recognizing it instantly—the muted palette of dark grays and deep neutrals, the heavy drapes that blocked out too much light, the meticulously arranged furniture that looked less like decoration and more like deliberate placement.
Nothing was out of order. Nothing was accidental. Even the smallest details were precise, as though chaos had never been allowed to exist here.
Her chest tightened.
Because if she was here, if she had slept in his room, then he had carried her.
And if he had carried her—
Her gaze dropped instinctively.
She already knew what that meant. And she didn't like it at all.
During the night, part of her shirt had shifted, riding up just enough to leave her side exposed, and she didn't need a mirror to know what she would see there.
The faint scratches traced uneven lines across her skin, already beginning to scab, while darker bruises bloomed beneath them in mottled shades of blue and purple, spreading like ink beneath the surface.
They were unmistakable, impossible to miss, and far more visible than she had intended them to be.
Evidence.
Her stomach dropped.
He saw them. There was no way he hadn't.
The realization hit her all at once, sharp and breath-stealing, and with it came the quiet panic she had been holding back since yesterday. Her pulse quickened, and she felt that familiar, unwelcome tightness in her chest, the one that came whenever something slipped beyond her control.
She had planned this carefully.
She had hidden it carefully. And now, without meaning to, she had undone all of it.
She slid out of bed, moving slowly, cautiously, every shift of her weight sending a dull reminder through her ribs. She dressed quickly, tugging her shirt down, smoothing the fabric as if it might erase what lay beneath it, and then hurried back to her own room before anyone could see her.
When she closed the door behind her, she leaned against it, pressing her forehead lightly to the wood, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, forcing her pulse to slow.
Don't spiral, she told herself. Don't.
But it was hard not to, when the one thing she had been trying to protect—her privacy—had slipped through her fingers while she slept.
She freshened up quickly, splashing water on her face, brushing her hair back, choosing clothes that covered everything—long sleeves, high collar, nothing that could betray her. Her reflection looked the same, but she didn't feel it.
She felt… exposed.
Downstairs, the scent of breakfast carried through the house in quiet waves—fresh coffee steeped dark and strong, warm bread just broken open, something savory layered beneath it, rich with butter and herbs. The aroma should have been comforting. Instead, it sharpened her awareness of the hollow space in her stomach.
She had not eaten the night before.
The memory surfaced with a flicker of embarrassment.
After the clinic, she had washed away the dust and dried blood with careful hands, watching bruises deepen beneath running water. She had meant to sit down only long enough to rest her ribs before finding something light to eat. But the bed had been too soft. The room had been too quiet. Exhaustion had claimed her without negotiation.
Now hunger stirred sluggishly beneath the ache in her body, mingling with a thin thread of guilt she could not quite justify.
She descended the last step and slowed as the dining area came into view.
Cassian was already there.