Noah lost consciousness twice.
Aria counted both.
The first time was shock.
The second was blood loss.
Neither surprised her.
She adjusted her grip under his arm, hauling him through the narrow service alley behind the building, every step precise despite his dead weight dragging against her side.
"…Still too heavy," she muttered.
"…You always were."
Not the First Time
She had carried him before.
Different city.
Different blood.
Different night.
Same stupid expression on his face right before gravity won.
Her jaw tightened.
"…You never learned when to stop," she thought.
The Moment That Stays With Her
Halfway down the alley, Noah stirred.
His eyes fluttered open.
Focused—barely.
On her.
"…You didn't hesitate," he murmured, voice slurred.
Aria didn't slow.
"Don't flatter yourself," she said.
"I hate cleaning up messes."
He smiled faintly.
That damned smile.
The one that always showed up right before things went wrong.
"…You came anyway."
She stopped.
Just for a second.
Looked down at him.
"…I watched you fall," she said quietly.
"And I decided you weren't allowed to hit the ground alone."
He swallowed.
That was the most honest thing she'd said all night.
Hiding in Plain Sight
She cut through a maintenance door she had memorized months ago.
Down a flight of stairs.
Into a service corridor that smelled like dust and disinfectant.
No cameras.
Old buildings always forgot their bones.
She eased him down against the wall.
Checked his ribs.
Her fingers pressed.
Noah hissed.
"…Broken," she assessed.
"Two. Maybe three."
"…You're gentle," he breathed.
She snorted.
"Shut up."
The Cost Hits Her Late
Only when he was stable did the tremor hit her hands.
Barely visible.
Controlled.
But there.
She curled her fingers into fists until it stopped.
"…This wasn't supposed to happen," she told the empty corridor.
"…You weren't supposed to make me choose."
Noah watched her through half-lidded eyes.
"…You always do," he said softly.
The City Starts to Close In
Above them, sirens grew louder.
Closer now.
Someone had called it in.
Someone always did.
Aria stood.
Listened.
Calculated.
They had minutes.
Maybe less.
The Look He Sees
Noah forced his eyes open wider.
Studied her face.
Not the rage.
Not the focus.
The flicker underneath.
"…They saw you," he said.
She didn't deny it.
"They always do," she replied.
Not bravado.
Fact.
Why This Hurts More Than Blood
He coughed.
Winced.
"…I crossed the line," he said.
"Yes," she answered.
"…I'm sorry."
That made her look at him.
Really look.
"…I know," she said.
"And that's the problem."
Closing Beat
She hoisted him up again.
Started moving.
Not running.
Not hiding.
Repositioning.
Because whatever came next wouldn't be quiet.
And as she dragged Noah deeper into the building's forgotten spine, one truth settled into place with brutal clarity:
She hadn't just watched him fall.
She had caught him.
Which meant the past had finally forced her to act—
Not as Aria Lane.
But as the woman she had buried.
And this time—
There would be no clean exit.