Footsteps moving away. A door closing somewhere else in the house.
That’s it.
I look down at the plate in my lap. Half-eaten, my name still on the foil in black marker.
He saw. He knows. And he just… left.
I don’t know why that makes it worse.
I get up, rinse the fork and head back to the kitchen. I open the fridge and shove the plate toward the back where it’s not the first thing someone sees. I shut the door and stand there in the dark for a second, listening.
Nothing.
I go back to my room, closing the door behind me.
As I lay down, I realize I keep waiting to feel something—shame, maybe, or anger, or the sick twist of being caught doing something wrong. But all I feel is the food settling in my stomach for the first time in days.
He didn’t make it into anything.
He just let me have it.
I stare at the ceiling and know that I still won’t sleep, but this time it’s not because I’m scared.
I don’t know what it is.
Chapter 9
Nova
Morning light is too bright.
I don’t know when I finally fell asleep, but it wasn’t for long. My body feels heavy and wrong, like I’m moving through water. But there’s noise in the house—voices, footsteps, the clatter of something in the kitchen—and I can’t hide in this room forever.
I sit up. Look at the dresser I ignored last night.
Might as well.
The drawers have clothes in them. Nothing fancy, but they’re clean and soft and roughly my size. Someone put these here. Someone thought about what I might need before I arrived.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I pull on a pair of gray joggers and a black t-shirt that’s a little too big but not swimming on me. They’re better than the processing clothes. Better than anything I’ve worn in a long time, if I’m being honest.
The hallway is bright. Sunlight through windows makes the house looks different—warmer, more lived-in. Less like a trap.
I make myself walk toward the noise.
The kitchen is full of them.
They’re all here, moving around each other with the easy rhythm of people who’ve done this a thousand times. Someone’s saying something about a training schedule. Vaelor is at the counter, doing something with the coffee maker. There’s a conversation happening that I walked into the middle of.
Rane is at the table.
He looks up when I enter. Our eyes meet.
My chest tightens. Here it comes. The question, the comment, the acknowledgment of what he saw last night—
He gives me a small smile. “Morning.”
