Because he's right. Because I've been fighting for so long that I don't know how to stop. Don't know how to let someone help without assuming there's a price.
"Okay," I whisper. "Thank you."
He doesn't tell me to stop thanking him this time. Just nods and starts making up the couch.
His bedroom is exactly what I expected. Sparse. Functional. A bed with dark sheets, a dresser, a window with blackout curtains. Nothing personal. Nothing that says who Marcus really is beyond a man who needs a place to sleep.
I find a t-shirt in the dresser. He won't miss one and I change in the bathroom. It falls to mid-thigh on me, swallowing my frame. It smells like detergent.
The bed is comfortable. More comfortable than mine. I sink into it and stare at the ceiling, listening to Marcus move around in the living room. The couch creaking as he settles. The TV turning on low, volume barely audible.
He's giving me space. Privacy. Safety.
Things I haven't had in a week.
I close my eyes.
Just for tonight.
Tomorrow I'll figure out a real plan.
Tomorrow.
Hours later…
The knocking pulls me from sleep so suddenly I don't know where I am.
For one terrible moment, I think I'm back at my parents' house. That everything—running, Blackwater Falls, Marcus—was a dream.
Then I hear his voice.
"Nora." Calm. But urgent underneath. "I need you to wake up."
I'm out of bed before my brain fully catches up. My heart's already racing, already knowing something's wrong.
I open the door. Marcus is standing there fully dressed in dark jeans and a black hoodie. His face is stone.
"What happened?"
"Three cars just pulled up outside. Black SUVs, same as the ones from earlier. Men getting out. At least a dozen."
No.
No no no.
"I was sleeping," I whisper. Horror crashes through me. "I was sleeping and you were—"
"Keeping watch." He says it like it's obvious. Like of course he wasn't sleeping. "Get dressed. Shoes on. We might need to move fast."
I'm already moving, grabbing my jeans from where I left them, pulling them on under his shirt. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely work the zipper.
"I'm sorry," I say. "God, Marcus, I'm so sorry. You should have woken me, you should have—"
"You needed sleep." He's not looking at me. He's looking at his phone, typing something fast. "I didn't."
"That's not—you can't just—"
"Nora." He looks up. "Focus. We don't have time for apologies right now."
