Grayson steps back again, running a hand through his graying hair. He glances toward the other officers, who are still lingering by the tape, watching. Then, without looking back:
“You’ve got ten minutes.”
And he walks away.
Cassian watches him go.
Not until the man disappears behind the crime scene tape does Cassian’s body shift again, the invisible tension cracking out of his spine. The soldier in him doesn’t crumble, but something inside him sags, like the world just kicked his last leg out from under him and he’s too tired to land on his feet.
I step out from behind the tree, leaves still tangled in my hair, dirt clinging to my skin. My mouth is dry, my chest tight, but I move.
He doesn’t look at me at first. Just stares ahead, locked in a trance, eyes hollowed out by memories I can’t reach.
Then finally,finally, his gaze flicks toward me.
“You saw that?” he asks, voice like grit and rust.
I nod.
He doesn't flinch, doesn’t defend himself. Of course not. That’s not Cassian. He just watches me, waiting for something I don’t know if I have the words to give. Sympathy? Forgiveness? Understanding?
Maybe all of it.
Maybe none.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” he says at last. “You look like shit, though.”
I glance down. Mud crusted on my sleeves, grassy streaks at the hem of my shirt. “Gravity gave me a kiss. Took it personal that I escaped her for five years.”
A breath slips out of him. Almost a laugh. Almost.
But the smile never comes.
Then he shifts, the metal of the cuffs scraping faintly as he raises his wrists.
“We should go.”
I don’t answer, not right away. Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out the locket. The one etched with those two small words: My first.
I hold it up so he can see it. Watch as the recognition settles in his eyes like a storm behind glass.
Cassian nods once.
No words. None needed.
We slip into the car like ghosts—quiet, invisible, half-faded. I follow his instructions, fingers working clumsily at the cuffs until they fall away with a muted click. He rubs at his wrists without a sound.
By the time Grayson’s ten minutes are up, we’re already gone.
The crime scene disappears in the rearview mirror, swallowed by trees and asphalt and the stretch of road ahead.
But even as distance grows and safety starts to flicker on the horizon, one thought anchors itself in my chest like a nail through bone:
Cassian has ghosts.
And if they’re anything like mine?
They’re not done with him yet.
