Ethan
I don't like mornings.
They expose what night lets people hide — fatigue, hesitation, mistakes. Daylight makes everyone sloppy.
Including me.
I keep my back to the motel door while I load the car, eyes flicking between the parking lot and my reflection in the window. Mist hangs low, blurring outlines, turning distance into guesswork. Weather like this forgives bad decisions right up until it doesn't.
Mara stands a few feet behind me, wearing my hoodie under her coat.
It shouldn't bother me.
It does.
"You ready?" I ask.
She nods. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere busy."
"That's comforting," she says dryly.
"It should be."
Crowds are camouflage. Motion is protection. Stillness is where people get hurt.
I open the passenger door and wait until she's inside before closing it. No rushing. Rushing draws attention. I slide into the driver's seat, start the engine, and pull out like this is any other forgettable morning.
The motel disappears in the mirror.
"Seatbelt."
She clicks it in without comment.
We don't talk for the first ten minutes. I take the long way out — surface streets, a slow loop, one deliberate double back to see who follows.
No one does.
That doesn't relax me.
"You always this quiet?" she asks.
"When it matters."
"And does it matter now?"
I glance at her. She's watching the city pass by, not me. Alert. Composed. She hasn't asked the questions I know are pressing against the back of her teeth.
"Yes," I say. "It matters."
She exhales, then nods. "Okay."
There it is again.
Not passive. Not blind. Measured. She's choosing how much to trust, one decision at a time.
That kind of trust gets people hurt.
Traffic thickens as we near downtown. Umbrellas. Coffee cups. Headphones. People moving through lives that haven't cracked open yet. Normality presses in, and I feel the shift when Mara notices it too.
Her shoulders tighten.
"You're safe here," I tell her. "For now."
She looks at me. "You say that like it has an expiration date."
"Everything does."
She doesn't argue.
I park in a multi-level garage attached to a transit hub. Cameras everywhere. Noise, movement, layers of visibility.
We blend.
I walk half a step ahead of her, close enough that I can reach back without looking. I don't touch her. I don't need to. She stays with me.
"You're scanning," she murmurs as we move through the crowd.
"Yes."
"For what?"
"For patterns that don't fit."
She hums softly. "Like me."
I glance sideways. "You fit just fine."
"That's not what you mean."
No. It isn't.
We stop at a coffee stand near the platform. I order two without asking. Black for me. Something sweet for her — I remember the way she winced at the protein bar.
She takes the cup. Our fingers brush this time.
Brief. Electric. Annoying.
"Thank you," she says.
"For the coffee," I reply automatically.
She smiles — not wide, not soft. Just enough.
I check the time. Then my phone. One bar of service flickers and disappears.
We won't stay long.
"After this," she says quietly, "are you going to tell me something?"
I meet her gaze. Hold it.
"Yes," I say. "One thing."
Her expression settles. "I'll take it."
I watch her sip the coffee. Watch her shoulders loosen a fraction. I tell myself that's enough. That this is still logistics. Still movement. Still a job.
But as the crowd flows around us and the city pretends nothing is wrong, the truth settles heavy in my chest.
I'm not just moving her through space anymore.
I'm choosing her.
And that's when things start to go wrong.