CHAPTER 11 — STAY
796 Words
LIAM’S POV
I hadn’t planned to stay the night.
That was the lie I told myself as I checked the locks for the third time, as if repetition could turn intention into truth. The penthouse was quiet—too quiet for someone who’d spent most of his life listening for danger in every shadow.
Anya sat curled on the far end of the couch, knees drawn to her chest, wrapped in a blanket she didn’t seem to realize she was gripping too tightly. The storm from earlier had passed, leaving the city washed clean and glimmering beyond the glass walls.
I should have left.
Every instinct I had told me staying was a mistake. I was compromised enough as it was. Lingering only increased the risk—to me and to her.
And yet.
You can take the guest room, she said softly, eyes fixed on the floor. If you want.
The words were careful. Controlled. An offer made without expectation.
I studied her in silence. The way she held herself told me everything—this wasn’t about convenience. It was about fear. About the quiet that followed panic, when the body hadn’t caught up with the mind yet.
I’ll stay out here, I said instead.
Her head snapped up. You don’t have to.
I know.
Another pause. Then she nodded, accepting the compromise like it mattered more than pride.
I settled into the chair opposite her, positioning myself where I could see the door, the windows, the security panel. Old habits. Necessary ones.
Minutes passed. Then more.
The city hummed outside, distant and impersonal. Inside, the air felt fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it.
You didn’t ask, she said suddenly.
Ask what?
Why I don’t leave.
The question wasn’t accusatory. Just… tired.
I leaned back slightly. Do you want me to?
She considered that. “ don’t know.
Fair enough.
I can guess, I said carefully. But I’d rather hear it from you.
She took a breath, steadying herself. Because outside feels… loud. Uncontrolled. Like I’m constantly bracing for something terrible to happen.
I nodded once. And in here?
It’s quieter, she said. Predictable.
Her gaze flicked to me, hesitant. You’re predictable.
That almost made me laugh.
I’m a fugitive, I said dryly. That’s not exactly reassuring.
She shook her head. You don’t pretend. You don’t surprise me emotionally. I can read you.
That landed harder than she probably intended.
Most people saw what they wanted to see. She saw what was.
You’re not afraid of me, I said.
I am, she corrected gently. Just not in the way people expect.
I understood that more than I wanted to.
Silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t sharp. It was… shared.
You can sleep, I said after a while. I’ll keep watch.
Her lips pressed together. You don’t have to do that either.
I want to.
The truth was simple. Guarding something—someone—felt familiar. Easier than guarding myself.
She hesitated, then slowly lay back against the cushions, eyes fluttering closed. Her breathing remained shallow at first, as if she didn’t fully trust rest yet.
I didn’t move.
Minutes stretched into an hour.
Her breathing evened out eventually, soft and rhythmic. Sleep claimed her gently, like it was afraid of startling her away.
I watched her longer than necessary.
There was a vulnerability to her I recognized—not weakness, but exposure. The kind that came from surviving something that rewired you permanently.
I’d seen it in mirrors I avoided.
My gaze drifted to the glass walls, to the city beyond. Somewhere out there were people who wanted me erased. Somewhere out there was a past I couldn’t outrun.
And here—impossibly—was a place that didn’t ask me to perform or pretend.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
She stirred suddenly, brow furrowing, breath hitching.
Hey, I said softly, rising without thinking. You’re okay.
Her eyes flew open, panic flashing briefly before recognition set in.
You’re still here, she whispered.
Yes.
Her shoulders sagged with relief she didn’t try to hide.
I thought I dreamed you, she admitted.
I’m real, I said. Unfortunately.
A small smile tugged at her lips before fading. Will you… stay until morning?
The question tightened something in my chest.
Morning meant commitment. It meant risk.
It also meant honesty.
I can, I said. But I won’t make promises I can’t keep.
She nodded, accepting the limitation without disappointment. That’s enough.
I returned to my chair, keeping my voice low. Try to sleep.
She did.
And as the city lights dimmed toward dawn, I realized something uncomfortable and undeniable:
This place wasn’t just a hiding spot anymore.
It was becoming an anchor.
And anchors had a way of dragging you under if you weren’t careful.
- Writer
