Stella tries to be normal on the drive to the school. She talks about a read-aloud book she wants to use, a little “feelings chart” activity for her kids, and her voice brightens when she mentions Levi’s obsession with “ninja moves.”
I nod at the right places. I listen.
But my eyes never stop scanning the road. And my mind never stops calculating. Because I’m not just her bodyguard anymore.
Not in my head.
Not in my gut.
She’s become something else.
Something dangerous.
Something worth losing myself over.
At the school, I park in the same spot—line of sight to the main entrance, easy exit, no blind corners. I get out first, sweep the lot, then open Stella’s door. She rolls her eyes, but she steps close enough that her shoulder brushes mine when we walk.
That tiny touch feels like a brand.
Inside, the hallways are loud with morning energy. Teachers rushing. Kids dragging backpacks that are too big for their bodies. The smell of disinfectant and cereal.
Stella’s classroom is a bright square of normal.
She throws on her teacher smile the second the first kid runs in, and I watch her transform—fear tucked away, sunshine turned on, warmth poured into every word.
It’s one of the things that’s ruining me.
Because she does it even when she’s scared.
Because she refuses to let anyone else carry her fear.
I stand in the hallway outside her door like I belong there now. Kids wave at me. Levi shouts, “MR. SINCLAIR! DID YOU DEFEAT ANY BAD GUYS LAST NIGHT?”
I keep my voice calm. “Not last night.”
Levi frowns. “WHY NOT?”
“Because you were asleep,” I say.
The kid’s eyes widen like I just revealed a secret spy rule. “OH.”
Stella looks up from her desk and gives me an exasperated, affectionate look that hits me right in the chest.
She mouths,You’re encouraging them.
I mouth back,They’re fine.
She shakes her head, smiling, and for a second everything feels… possible.
Then my phone buzzes.
Grayson.
My body goes cold.
I step farther down the hall, out of Stella’s direct line of sight but still close enough to cover her door. I answer quietly.
“Sinclair,” Grayson says. “We’ve got movement.”
