Ethan
I don't sleep.
I sit in the chair by the door, weight forward, elbows on my thighs, eyes on the window. Rain taps against the glass — lighter now, exhausted. The room smells like damp fabric and cheap cleaner with a metallic edge I can't place.
Mara breathes behind me.
Steady. Slow. Real sleep.
That matters.
She shifts after a while. Not sudden — no panic. Just the quiet movement of someone surfacing. I don't turn when she speaks.
"How long was I out?"
"An hour. Maybe two."
She sits up. I hear the blanket slide, the soft scuff of movement. I glance over just long enough to confirm she's upright and oriented.
"Did anything happen?"
"No."
She waits. Smart.
"Is that a good no," she asks, "or a temporary one?"
"Temporary."
Her feet hit the floor. The carpet's thin — I know exactly where it's coldest. I folded her coat while she slept. Didn't wake her. Didn't think about why that felt important.
"You don't sleep," she says.
"I rest."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
She studies me openly now. Most people look away when they realize you're built for violence. She doesn't. She catalogs. Files it away.
"You've done this before," she says.
"Yes."
"How many times?"
I let the silence answer first.
"Enough."
She nods, accepting it without pushing. That restraint tells me more than curiosity ever could.
"I don't think the crash was the first time," she says.
My gaze snaps to her.
"The first time someone tried to kill me," she adds quietly.
"Why do you think that?"
"I've been followed before. Long gaps. Subtle. I told myself it was coincidence."
"And now?"
"Now someone walked into a café with a gun."
"That tends to clarify things."
"Yes," she says. "It does."
I shift my weight, check my phone again. Still no signal. Dead zone. Expected.
"You said you know enough," she continues. "About why."
"I do."
"Do I know anything?"
"No."
She exhales. Controlled. Frustrated, but not unraveling.
"That doesn't feel fair."
"It's not about fair."
"Then what is it about?"
I stand. Slowly. Close the distance but stop short — enough space to remind us both where the line is.
"Survival," I say.
"Mine?"
"Yes."
"And yours?"
Something tightens in my chest.
"That depends."
I turn away before she can read more into it.
"We'll move before morning."
"Where?"
"Somewhere you don't expect."
"You keep saying that."
"It's intentional."
She crosses her arms. "Is this the part where I trust you blindly?"
"No," I say. "Selectively."
"What do I get to know?"
"When we leave, I'll tell you what you can't say out loud."
"And the rest?"
"You'll learn by watching."
She considers me. Then—
"Okay."
No bargaining. No fear-performance. Just a decision.
That's the moment something shifts. Not relief. Something heavier. More dangerous.
"You're calmer than most people," I say.
"I don't feel calm."
"But you're acting like it."
"Panic wastes time."
"It does."
I head for the door.
"I'm checking the perimeter. Don't open it."
"I won't."
"If someone knocks—"
"I won't answer."
"If you hear anything—"
"I'll wake you," she says. "I remember."
I pause, hand on the knob.
"Mara."
"Yes?"
"You did everything right today."
Her expression changes — not pride. Not gratitude. Something steadier.
"Thank you."
I step into the corridor. Rain hits louder out here. The lot is empty, but empty never means clear.
Behind me is a locked door.
Inside it is a woman who should be dead — who isn't — trusting me with her life.
I don't know when that stopped feeling like a job.
But I know it already is.