Zane
I spendthe next few days changing the locks. Again. Because someone got close.
Close enough to take her, to make this place feel penetrable.
By the time I’m done, my hands smell of metal and sawdust, and the whole building feels tighter. More honest. It knows what it is now.
A fortress.
It still doesn’t feel enough.
I check the windows next.
The downstairs bar windows get new locks and fresh sensors, plus a set of temporary internal braces I can put up after close without making the place look worse than a prison during business hours. Upstairs, I swap out the latch on Aurora’s window, test it twice, then add a secondary catch anyway.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I finish, wrapped in one of Finn’s hoodies and a blanket she didn’t need ten days ago.
She doesn’t say anything when I tighten the last screw, or if I think Cole has people left. Doesn’t ask if I think this is over, or any of the questions I can feel sitting just behind her teeth.
She watches my hands instead.
“You didn’t drink the tea,” she says after a minute.
I glance back.
She’s trying for normal. I can hear it in her voice. Light. Casual. A little crooked around the edges.
It does something rough to me.
“I can make more.”
“There’s some in the pot.” She shifts, tucking one foot under her. “I made enough.”
I set the drill down on the dresser and cross to the little tray she’s got set up by the lamp. Mug. Teapot. Honey. The whole thing neat and gentle and painfully Aurora.
The steam’s gone thin, but it’s still warm when I pour.
I hand her the first cup, and her icy fingers brush mine.
She takes the mug in both hands and holds it there before drinking. Heat is something she has to convince her body to accept again.
I pour mine and sit in the chair by the door.
Closest point between her and the rest of the world.
She notices, but doesn’t mention it.
We stay that way for a while. The room quiet except for the soft clink of ceramic and the faint noises of the bar below us. Arlo stacking glasses, Finn talking too loud on purpose, the building settling around people trying not to think too hard.
Aurora stares into her tea.
There’s a bruise fading near her wrist. Yellow at the edges now. Less angry than it was yesterday. Still there.
My jaw tightens.
She catches it. Of course she does.
“I’m okay,” she says softly.
