Ethan
By morning, the rain thins into mist.
That's worse.
Mist hides movement. Softens edges. Turns the parking lot into a gray wash where depth perception lies to you. I sleep in fragments — five minutes here, ten there — never fully under. Every sound routes straight into awareness.
Nothing happens.
That doesn't mean nothing's coming.
I let myself back into the room just after six. Quiet. Controlled. The door clicks shut behind me.
Mara is awake.
She sits on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them. Her hair is down now, falling in dark waves around her shoulders. She looks smaller like this — not weaker, just unguarded.
"You didn't wake me," she says.
"I said I would if something happened."
She tilts her head. "And did something happen?"
"No."
"Then you kept your promise."
I set my bag down. She watches me with eyes that have seen too much too fast. No sleep lines — just alertness stretched thin.
"You should've slept," she says.
"So should you."
A faint, humorless smile. "I tried."
I reach into my bag and pull out a folded hoodie. Clean. Dry. I set it beside her.
"For the cold."
She looks at it, then at me. "That's yours."
"Yes."
"You'll freeze."
"No," I say. "I'll adapt."
That earns me a long look. Measuring.
"Thank you," she says finally, slipping it on. The sleeves are too long, swallowing her hands. She pushes them back, pauses.
She doesn't comment on the way it smells. Neither do I.
"Coffee?" she asks.
"Eventually."
"That's not an answer."
"It's a realistic one."
She presses her palms into the mattress like she's bracing herself. "Ethan?"
"Yes."
"If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth — or the version that keeps me compliant?"
The question lands harder than most bullets I've dodged.
"I don't need you compliant," I say. "I need you alive."
"That didn't answer my question."
I meet her gaze. Hold it. "I won't lie to you."
"But you won't tell me everything."
"No."
She nods slowly. "Okay."
There it is again — that quiet recalibration. Not weakness. Adjustment. It puts me on edge more than resistance would.
Her hands shake.
Just enough to notice. She tucks them into the sleeves of my hoodie like she's grounding herself. The room feels smaller this morning. The walls closer.
"I keep thinking," she says, "that if I'd stayed home yesterday, none of this would've happened."
"That's not true."
"You don't know that."
"Yes," I say. "I do."
She looks up. "How?"
"Because someone planned it. Cafés and timing don't matter when the intent is fixed."
That steadies her. I see it in the way her shoulders lower a fraction.
"So it wasn't random."
"No."
"They knew my routine."
"Probably."
"For how long?"
I hesitate. Just long enough.
"Long enough to wait."
Her breath tightens. "That's… unsettling."
"Yes."
She laughs softly. Brittle. "You're very good at reassurance."
"I'm not here to reassure you."
"I know." A pause. "You're here to keep me breathing."
"That's enough."
"Is it?"
The question slips out before she can stop it.
I don't answer right away.
"No," I say finally. "It's not."
Her pulse jumps. I see it in her throat. "Then what else?"
"Then I make sure you don't face this alone."
Her eyes shine — not tears yet, but close. She blinks once, turns away, staring at the wall like it can hold her together.
I move without thinking.
Not touching her. Just closer. Close enough that my presence anchors the space.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," I say.
"I don't know how not to be."
"I do."
She huffs a quiet laugh. "Of course you do."
I don't smile.
The moment hangs — fragile, intimate, dangerous. One wrong move and it tips into something neither of us is ready for.
She inhales. Exhales. Regains control.
"We should go," she says.
"Yes," I agree, too quickly.
She stands, the hoodie hanging off her frame, and meets my eyes. "You'll tell me when it's time?"
"Yes."
"And until then?"
"Until then, you trust me."
She nods. "Okay."
The word carries weight now.
Outside, the mist thickens, swallowing the parking lot whole.
She grabs her bag, her coat, her resolve.
Whatever waits beyond that door, I know one thing with unsettling clarity.
She's not just surviving anymore.
She's already involved.