The Cracks
832 Words
I didn’t trust Elias Blackwood.
That part hadn’t changed.
But trust isn’t the same as noticing. And lately, I’d been noticing things I didn’t want to.
It was small at first.
The way he slowed his steps when I lagged behind, like it wasn’t even conscious. The way security hovered closer around me now—positioned casually, but never far. The way he stopped pushing when I said no. He just adjusted.
It didn’t feel gentle.
It felt intentional.
We were in the car when it settled in properly. Traffic barely moving. Rain sliding down the windows. The silence between us wasn’t hostile. Just… heavy.
“You didn’t have to handle Mara like that,” I said.
He glanced over. “I didn’t touch her.”
“I know. That’s the point.”
A faint line appeared between his brows. “She made her choices.”
“You could’ve ruined her,” I said. “You didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
His jaw flexed slightly. “Mercy isn’t weakness.”
I let out a quiet scoff. “That’s not exactly your brand.”
“Reputation is a tool,” he replied calmly. “I use it when it serves me.”
“And when it doesn’t?”
“It changes.”
That should’ve unsettled me.
Instead, something shifted.
At the apartment he arranged—temporary, quiet, nothing personal—I noticed the fridge was stocked. Not expensive food. Just normal things. Milk. Bread. The cheap cereal I’d once mentioned liking because it reminded me of when life was simple.
I stopped walking.
He noticed.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “Just… didn’t expect that.”
“I asked what you eat.”
“When?”
“When you thought I wasn’t listening.”
That annoyed me more than it should have.
Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. My phone buzzed around 2 a.m.
Elias: You’re pacing.
I froze.
Checked the door. Locked. Curtains closed.
Me: Are you watching me?
A few seconds passed.
Elias: Motion alert. Security feed.
I exhaled.
Me: You could turn it off.
Elias: I could. I won’t.
I stared at the screen.
Me: You don’t trust me.
His reply came slower this time.
Elias: I trust patterns. You don’t sleep when you’re planning something reckless.
A smile almost escaped me.
Almost.
The next morning, I asked a question I shouldn’t have.
“Why are you helping me?” I said from the kitchen. “Not the company. Me.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Because Cross doesn’t get to decide who breaks,” he said finally.
“That sounds personal.”
“It is.”
I studied his face. “Did he do this to someone you cared about?”
His expression shut down instantly.
“Don’t,” he said.
That was answer enough.
It wasn’t trust growing between us.
It was recognition.
Later, the media pushed harder. A commentator questioned his judgment for “protecting a liability.” The clip ran everywhere.
“He’s baiting you,” I said.
“I know.”
“You’ll respond.”
“Yes.”
“That’ll make it worse.”
“Short-term.”
I crossed my arms. “You don’t have to stand in front of me.”
“I do,” he said. “If I step aside, they’ll tear you apart just to see what spills out.”
The words sat heavy in my chest.
“I don’t need a shield.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re a weapon. They just don’t know how sharp yet.”
It wasn’t a compliment.
It was a fact.
That night, when a car idled too long outside the building, Elias didn’t send security.
He came himself.
Rain darkened his coat. His eyes scanned the hallway before stepping inside.
“You didn’t have to,” I said.
“Yes, I did.”
Again.
Silence stretched between us.
“Why do you hate me?” he asked suddenly.
I let out a dry laugh. “You really need me to spell it out?”
“I know the public version,” he said. “I want yours.”
I swallowed.
“Because you survived,” I said quietly. “Because you stayed standing while my father fell. Because every door that slammed in our faces opened for you.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“That’s what it looked like.”
He nodded once. “Fair.”
I waited for him to argue.
He didn’t.
“You’re allowed to hate me,” he said.
That unsettled me more than denial would have.
“I don’t need your permission.”
“I know,” he replied. “Just don’t let it blind you.”
I looked away.
The hatred was still there.
But it wasn’t clean anymore.
It had cracks.
And once hatred cracks, something else always tries to grow in the space.
I wasn’t ready for that.
Not yet.
- Writer
