Mara
The motel looks exactly like the kind of place people forget.
Two stories. Faded blue doors. A vacancy sign flickering like it's on its last breath. Ethan parks beneath a broken light and stays in the car for a second longer than necessary.
I don't ask why.
If I've learned anything in the last hour, it's that silence isn't empty — it's deliberate.
"No one followed us," he says finally, more to himself than to me.
That doesn't sound like reassurance.
"Stay close," he adds, already moving.
I do.
Room 214 is at the end of the corridor. One way in. One way out. The kind of setup that makes my chest tighten even as I understand why he chose it.
He unlocks the door, sweeps the room before letting me inside. Cheap carpet. One bed. Narrow bathroom. A window facing the parking lot.
Temporary.
"Bathroom," he says. "If you need it. Don't open the door unless I say."
I nod.
The door locks behind us. Once. Then again. The sound settles deep in my bones.
Ethan moves through the room like he's following instructions only he can see. Deadbolt. Curtains — left open just enough to watch the lot. A bag unzipped, contents laid out with careful precision.
I watch him.
Not staring. Watching. The way his shoulders never fully relax. The way he positions himself between me and the window without thinking about it.
"You always do that?" I ask.
"Do what?"
"Stand like you're bracing for impact."
He stills for a fraction of a second. "Habit."
I let it go. Whatever that habit cost him, it wasn't something I was meant to know yet.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the edge of the bed. "I need to check you for injuries."
"I'm fine."
"I heard you," he replies. "Sit anyway."
I hesitate — just long enough to resent that I'm hesitating — then sit. My coat is still damp, rain darkening the hem. I can feel cold clinging to my skin, the leftover shock working its way out.
His touch is professional. Quick. Light. Wrists. Shoulders. Ribs.
"No pain?" he asks.
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"No."
"Headache?"
I look up at him. "Should I have one?"
"No," he says. "Just checking."
He steps back immediately, giving me space. I pull my coat tighter around myself even though the room isn't cold.
"You're thorough," I say.
"Alive people get sloppy," he replies. "Dead ones don't complain."
My mouth twitches despite myself.
The silence settles in after that. Heavy. Pressurized. Like the moment after thunder when you're waiting to see if there's more coming.
"You don't seem surprised," I say eventually.
"About what?"
"That someone tried to kill me."
He studies my face, sharp but not invasive. Like he's cataloging details for later.
"I am," he says. "I'm just not confused."
"You know why."
"I know enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's a boundary."
I exhale slowly. "Okay."
The word feels strange in my mouth — acceptance without surrender. Something in the room shifts when I say it.
"You hungry?" he asks.
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You didn't finish your coffee."
I almost laugh. Almost. "Is that part of the protection package?"
"Staying alive includes eating."
"Then yes," I say. "I'm starving."
He hands me a protein bar and a bottle of water. Our fingers don't touch, but the space between them feels charged anyway.
"Thank you," I say.
"For the food," he replies. "Not for the situation."
I take a bite and wince. "This tastes like cardboard."
"It's efficient cardboard."
That does make me laugh — quiet and surprised.
"How long?" I ask after a moment.
"Tonight," he says. "Maybe longer."
"And after that?"
"We move."
"Where?"
"Somewhere less obvious."
I nod slowly. "You're not telling me everything."
"No."
"But you will."
He meets my gaze. "When it's safer for you to know."
I believe him. I don't know why — only that my instincts have kept me alive before.
"You stayed back there," I say. "In the café."
"Yes."
"You didn't have to."
"Part of the job."
I don't argue. But something in his answer feels incomplete.
"Do you ever get tired?" I ask quietly.
"Yes," he says after a moment.
The rain picks up outside, steady and relentless. I lie back on the bed without asking, exhaustion finally dragging me under. He pulls a chair closer to the door and sits, solid and unmoving.
"Wake me if anything happens," I murmur.
"I will."
I believe him.
As my eyes close, one truth settles in, quiet and terrifying.
For the first time since the crash, I feel safe.
And for the first time since the café, I understand that safety comes with a cost.