“I don’t deserve you choosing me.”
“Probably not.”My voice didn’t waver.“But I’m not picking what I deserve.I’m picking what’s real.”
He kissed me—it wasn’t desperation this time, not panic, not relief that we hadn’t died.It was a vow disguised as a mouth pressed to mine, a promise that whatever happened next, we would meet it side by side.When we pulled apart, the documents were still trapped between us like a shared heartbeat.
“We leave today,” he said, all purpose again.“Photos first.Then the border.”
“No looking back,” I agreed.“But when we get wherever we’re going—we don’t lie to ourselves about who we were.We remember.”
His eyes softened.“We remember.Together.”
I picked up the left pile—the freedom I wasn’t choosing—and walked to the bathroom.Gabe started to protest, but I lit the edge of Sarah Mitchell’s passport before he could speak.Her face curled away into ash.The others followed, each name burning until nothing remained except a black smear in the sink and the smell of melted laminate.The life I wasn’t choosing died cleanly, without ceremony.
When I stepped back into the room, Gabe was packing the Chen documents into a waterproof case designed to survive fire and sinking.Something had shifted in him too—not hope alone, not determination alone, but a new singular purpose that aligned perfectly with mine.
“Let’s get those photos,” I said.“Marcus and Sarah Chen have to look like they meant their vows.”
“We did mean them,” he said quietly, sounding like the words still felt unreal in his mouth.
“Yeah,” I answered, taking his hand.“We did.”
Outside, the world kept moving—people rushing toward jobs and families and errands, unaware of two fugitives building a life out of forged paper and impossible devotion.Inside this room that smelled like mildew and ghosts, we packed our future into a backpack and prepared to run toward it instead of away from it.
Whatever hunted us would have to catch both of us or neither.
Because I had chosen my danger.I had chosen my love.And I would not abandon him.
Gabe
The border crossing rose out of the snow like a checkpoint between lives—fences crowned in razor wire, concrete barriers forcing cars into narrow lanes, floodlights bleaching the night to hard white.I eased off the gas and let the sedan settle into a steady crawl.Too fast meant nerves, too slow meant fear.Twenty-three miles per hour, according to the dash.Normal.Forgettable.The way people drove when they carried nothing more dangerous than luggage and bad coffee.
Mia sat beside me in the posture we’d practiced until it felt natural.Shoulders relaxed, spine straight, hands folded on her thighs.No restless movements.No clenched fists.Her gold band caught a slice of light every time we passed another lamp, matching the ring on my hand so neatly anyone watching would assume years of shared routine, not days of running from hired guns.
“Checkpoint in thirty seconds,” I said quietly, eyes on the split ahead.Three lanes, one closed, one staffed by an older officer whose posture said experience and boredom, one manned by a younger guard who scanned each vehicle like he still believed the training videos.“We take the rookie.Left lane.”
“Got it.”Her voice stayed even, though tension rolled off her in waves I felt more that heard.“Do I look okay?”
I took a quick glance.I didn’t see Mia Grant, girl who’d watched her family die.I saw Sarah Chen—brown hair in a low ponytail, soft sweater, simple jeans, bare face except for the hint of mascara.Nothing expensive, nothing cheap, nothing that would stick in anyone’s memory longer than two minutes after we passed through.A woman you might stand behind in line, then forget completely.
“Perfect,” I said, and meant far more than the cover.
The last hundred miles had been an exercise in worst-case scenarios.Best outcome: casual inspection, two questions, wave-through.Middle ground: prolonged questions, a request to step out, maybe a cursory search of the trunk.Worst outcome: our names flagged in some system, a BOLO tied to the Grant murders or to Vincent’s death, an older guard who recognized my face from a photo and reached for his weapon.I had contingencies for each scenario.None of them ended clean.
We slipped into the chosen lane behind a minivan packed with kids, snack wrappers, and the tired patience of two parents who’d been listening to cartoons for six hours straight.The family inside argued about juice boxes.The mother turned around to referee.The father looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.Normal.Painfully normal.A life where the worst crisis on that trip involved someone spilling grape drink on upholstery.
The minivan cleared fast, brake lights brightening, barrier lifting, then they disappeared into the curtain of snow beyond the posts.Our turn.I rolled forward to the painted stop line and lowered the window a few inches.Cold air and flakes swept in, sharp on my skin.The guard stepped into view—a kid, maybe mid-twenties, jaw tight against the temperature, eyes sharp, posture proud in a uniform that hadn’t had time to sag yet.
“Evening,” I said, tone easy but restrained.“Rough night to be out here.”
“Could be worse.”He gave a professional half-smile.“Passports, please.”
I handed them over in the relaxed sequence of routine travel—mine first, then Mia’s.He lifted them close to his flashlight beam, checked the photos, checked our faces.His gaze lingered on me longer than I liked, and every instinct screamed to fill the silence with something, any harmless noise.I held my tongue.Over-talking triggered suspicion faster than a quiet man who looked like he wanted to get home.
“Purpose of travel?”he asked.
“Visiting my aunt in Halifax,” Mia answered without a beat, slipping into the role we’d rehearsed.“We haven’t seen her since the wedding, and Marcus finally got time off.”
The mention of our marriage slid into the answer exactly where it should—neither forced nor highlighted.She sounded like a woman who’d been looking forward to this trip for weeks, not someone who’d burned her old identity in a motel sink twelve hours ago.Pride hit me sharp enough to hurt.
