Elias POV
Noa thinks she's learning how to survive me.
That's the mistake.
Survival implies reaction. Adaptation. Instinct.
What she's actually doing is remembering.
And memory is far more dangerous than fear.
I know she didn't sleep.
Her breathing last night was wrong—too shallow, too deliberate. People who sleep surrender control. Noa didn't surrender anything. She lay still like a witness pretending to be dead.
When morning comes, she's already awake.
Already careful.
Already performing.
She's sitting at the kitchen table when I enter, legs tucked neatly beneath the chair, hands wrapped around a mug she hasn't touched. Hair brushed. Face neutral.
Normal.
Too normal.
"Good morning," she says.
The tone is perfect. Light. Unburdened.
A lie.
I pour coffee slowly, letting the silence stretch. She tracks every movement without looking at me. Her reflection in the microwave door gives her away—eyes sharp, alert, cataloguing exits.
Good.
Fear sharpens her. Fear makes her precise.
"You didn't sleep," I say casually.
She stiffens for half a second. Barely perceptible.
"I did," she replies. "Just… restlessly."
Another lie.
I smile faintly. "Nightmares?"
She shakes her head. "Not really."
That one is closer to the truth. Nightmares require memory.
She doesn't have enough yet.
I sit across from her, deliberately close. Invasion disguised as intimacy. Her knee brushes mine.
She doesn't move it away.
Progress.
"I made an appointment for you," I say. "This afternoon."
Her fingers tighten around the mug.
"With who?" she asks.
I don't answer immediately. Timing matters.
"With someone who specializes in post-traumatic dissociation," I say finally. "Outside Dr. Keene's circle."
Her gaze lifts. "Why?"
"Because Dr. Keene is compromised," I reply calmly. "And you need someone objective."
She studies my face now, really studies it, like she's searching for seams.
"What do you mean, compromised?"
"She sympathizes with you," I say. "That's dangerous."
Her jaw tightens.
"Sympathy isn't dangerous," she says.
"It is when it clouds judgment," I counter. "And when it encourages curiosity."
Her pulse jumps. I can see it in her throat.
"You don't want me asking questions," she says quietly.
"I don't want you chasing ghosts," I reply. "There's a difference."
She leans back slightly, putting space between us for the first time.
"You're afraid I'll remember something you missed," she says.
Ah.
There it is.
The test.
I meet her eyes steadily. "I'm afraid you'll hurt yourself trying to piece together something that's already over."
Her lips part. She almost believes me.
Almost.
"Is it?" she asks. "Over?"
"Yes."
The lie comes easily.
She nods slowly, like she's accepting the answer.
She isn't.
I watch her mind work—how she files the moment away instead of reacting to it. No explosion. No tears.
That's new.
That's dangerous.
"Okay," she says. "I'll go."
I raise an eyebrow. "No resistance?"
She gives a small, tired smile. "I'm trying to trust you."
Trust.
The word tastes bitter.
"I appreciate that," I say.
And I do.
Trust makes people careless.
Later, while she showers, I go through her phone.
There's nothing obvious. No calls. No messages. No attempts to reach out.
But I wasn't looking for that.
I scroll through her notes app.
There it is.
A single new entry.
No title. No date.
Just one sentence.
If he notices I'm pretending, I'm done.
I stare at the screen longer than necessary.
So.
She's awake.
Not fully. But enough.
I delete the note.
Then I don't.
Instead, I add one line beneath it.
You're doing well. Keep going.
I lock the phone and place it back exactly where it was.
When she comes out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around her, hair damp, she looks… soft. Vulnerable.
If I didn't know better, I'd almost believe it.
"You okay?" she asks, noticing my gaze.
"Just thinking," I reply.
She nods. Walks past me.
I watch the muscles in her back tense as she bends to grab her clothes. She thinks I'm watching her body.
I'm watching for fear.
For hesitation.
For the moment she decides whether to run.
It doesn't come.
Instead, she turns to me and says, "Can I ask you something?"
My heart rate spikes.
"Of course."
"Did I ever forgive you?"
The question lands carefully. Strategically.
"For what?" I ask.
"For… whatever happened," she says. "Before."
I take a breath. Measure the truth.
"No," I say.
Her eyes widen just a fraction.
"You didn't," I continue. "But you stopped hating me."
She nods slowly, absorbing that.
"And why was that?" she asks.
Because you needed me.
But I don't say that.
"Because you understood why I did it," I reply.
She studies me.
"Do you think I'll forgive you this time?" she asks.
The wrong answer here could shatter everything.
"I don't need forgiveness," I say carefully. "I need you alive."
She smiles faintly.
There's something wrong with it.
"I think," she says, "that scares me more than if you said you needed me to love you."
I don't respond.
She turns away.
And that's when I know.
Not suspect.
Not fear.
Know.
She's planning something.
That night, when she pretends to sleep again, I don't touch her.
I lie awake beside her, staring at the ceiling, replaying every version of the future that ends with her remembering too much.
Too soon.
I calculate timelines. Risks. Necessary damage.
When her breathing evens out for real this time, I turn my head and study her face in the dark.
"You always underestimate me," I whisper.
She doesn't stir.
But her fingers twitch.
Just once.
Like she heard me.
And in that moment, I understand something vital:
I didn't erase Noa's past.
I only delayed it.
And when it comes back—
I won't be the one in control anymore.
I'll be the one she remembers standing at the top of the stairs.
Watching.
Waiting.
Choosing.