---
The smell of frying bacon woke Elara.
For a few seconds, her mind floated in the strange fog between sleep and memory. She blinked at the pale ceiling above her, traced the hairline crack that zigzagged across the plaster, and tried to place it. Not her room. Not Cass's. Not home.
Then it rushed back—like a punch straight to the chest.
The chase through the city.
The message scrawled in red on the gas station wall.
The hollow look in Cass's eyes.
The journal pressed tight under her pillow, her only anchor through the long hours of the night.
Elara sat up too quickly, her heart slamming against her ribs. The futon creaked beneath her weight. She pressed her hands against the thin mattress as if grounding herself, searching the dim little room for signs of her brother.
Cass wasn't there.
Her pulse spiked. For a breathless second, terror clamped around her throat. Had they taken him? Had Miles—
A voice floated down the hall. Laughter. And the sizzle of bacon fat popping in a pan.
Cass's voice. Alive. Unbroken.
Relief came sharp and dizzying. She scrambled to her feet, raking a hand through her tangled hair, and pushed the door open.
---
The kitchen was small but bright, sunlight streaming through a window above the sink, catching on dust motes that floated lazily in the air. The table was crowded with plates, mismatched mugs, and the mouthwatering smell of food that felt almost offensive in its normalcy.
Cass sat hunched forward, devouring scrambled eggs like he hadn't eaten in days. Which, Elara realized, wasn't far from the truth. His fork clinked against the plate as he shoveled another bite into his mouth.
Across from him, Miles stood at the stove, a spatula in hand. He glanced up as Elara stepped in, his grin wide and effortless.
"Morning, sunshine," he said, sliding another strip of bacon onto Cass's plate. "Thought you could use some real food after… whatever mess you two dragged yourselves out of last night."
Cass chuckled, his mouth too full for words. Grease glistened on his lips, a smear of yolk on his chin. He looked more like the Cass she remembered—carefree, grinning, alive.
Elara crossed her arms. "Or you just want to know what's going on."
Miles turned, spatula raised in mock surrender. "Hey, no judgment. I'm not asking. I just figure… if you're in trouble, you're gonna need people on your side."
People on their side.
The words landed like a stone in her stomach. How could they even know who that was anymore? The world had turned sharp-edged overnight. Every smile could hide a knife.
Cass swallowed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "See? Told you he's a lifesaver."
Elara's glare burned at her brother, but Cass didn't look at her. He was too busy piling food onto his plate, too hungry to notice the tension twisting the air.
"Thanks," he said to Miles, ignoring her completely. "We appreciate it."
Miles shrugged easily. "Anything for my guy. You know that."
The ease between them grated. The way they fell back into their old rhythm, like the years hadn't passed, like danger wasn't breathing down their necks—it left Elara standing outside the circle, watching from the cold.
She slid into the chair across from Cass, her plate untouched. She couldn't bring herself to eat. The bacon smelled too rich, the eggs too heavy, her stomach too tight.
Miles didn't push her. But his eyes lingered—just a flicker too long when he thought she wasn't looking.
---
Later, when Cass finally gave in to exhaustion and ducked into the bathroom to shower, Elara stayed in the kitchen. She set the journal on her lap, her fingers pressed flat against the worn leather cover. The room felt too quiet without Cass's laughter filling it.
Miles leaned against the counter, sipping from a chipped mug of coffee. He watched her over the rim, his gaze steady and unreadable.
"You really don't like me, do you?" he asked suddenly.
Elara stiffened. The words felt too sharp, too direct. "It's not about that."
His mouth curved into a smirk. "Come on. You've hated me since we were kids. Thought I'd get Cass arrested before graduation."
She didn't answer.
Miles tilted his head, studying her. The smirk faded. His voice dropped lower, quieter, almost intimate.
"You don't trust me."
Her throat tightened. "Should I?"
For a moment, his eyes locked onto hers. Unflinching. Heavy.
The silence stretched too long. Her skin prickled, every nerve screaming to look away, but she held her ground.
Then Miles chuckled softly and shook his head, breaking the spell. "You're something else, Elara. Always have been."
He drained his coffee and set the mug down with a clink, as though the moment hadn't happened. As though he hadn't just dangled something dangerous between them.
But Elara's chest stayed tight, her breath shallow. She couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just tested her—and she hadn't passed.
---
The day dragged. Cass sprawled on the couch with the journal, flipping through their father's notes, sketching coordinates onto loose sheets of paper. He muttered to himself, scribbling lines and numbers with fierce concentration.
Miles came and went, moving through the apartment with restless energy—answering texts, making coffee, tinkering with the broken stereo in the corner. He was always moving. Always watching.
Elara kept herself busy, but her mind kept circling back to the same thought: he was too calm. Too unfazed by everything.
A normal person would have asked more questions.
A normal person would have been rattled by their bruises, by their midnight arrival.
Miles wasn't.
---
That night, after hours of Cass's low voice murmuring over maps, sleep finally dragged him under. He stretched out on the futon, the journal cradled against his chest like a lifeline. His breathing steadied, soft and even.
Elara waited until she was sure he was out before slipping from the bed. She padded quietly through the darkened apartment, her bare feet silent on the wood floor. The kitchen was empty. The living room cloaked in shadow.
But from down the hall, a faint glow spilled out from beneath a door. Miles's door.
She hesitated. Her heart thudded in her chest.
Then she crept closer, breath shallow, pulse roaring in her ears.
Voices.
She pressed herself against the wall, tilting her head toward the narrow strip of light. Miles's voice—low, urgent, stripped of its usual ease.
"…yeah, they're here. I told you. But the journal—"
Elara's blood turned to ice.
Her hand flew to her mouth, pressing hard to stifle the sound clawing up her throat. She forced herself back, step by step, the floor creaking under her weight like a betrayal.
Her mind spun. He was talking about them. About the journal. About—
She stumbled into the spare room, closing the door as softly as she could manage, though every click sounded like thunder in her ears.
Cass stirred as she slipped beneath the blanket. His voice was groggy, muffled with sleep. "Lara?"
Her hands clutched the journal to her chest, shaking. "Go back to sleep," she whispered.
He mumbled something she couldn't make out and rolled over.
Elara lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her skull.
She tried to tell herself she'd misheard. That maybe he'd been talking to a friend. That it wasn't what it sounded like.
But Miles's words echoed and echoed, poisoning the air.
"…yeah, they're here. I told you. But the journal—"
The safehouse wasn't safe.
And Miles was not on their side.
---