Chapter [19]: [AFTERSHOCK]
Maya arrived twenty minutes later, hair pulled into a loose knot, jacket thrown on over pajamas like she hadn't stopped to think. She knocked once, then again, sharper.
Ethan opened the door before the second knock finished echoing.
She took one look at his face and stepped inside, closing the door behind her without a word. For a moment they just stood there, too close, both breathing a little too fast.
"Sit," she said finally, firm but gentle.
He did.
Only then did the tremor in his hands fully reveal itself. It wasn't violent, just persistent—like the ground hadn't quite settled yet.
Maya knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers without asking. Her palms were warm. Solid.
"You're safe," she said. Not as reassurance. As instruction.
Ethan nodded. Once. Twice. The words took a moment to land.
He told her what happened—not embellished, not minimized. The alley. The choice. The lie that had worked. The part where he'd recognized himself from another life he couldn't fully explain.
She listened without interrupting, eyes never leaving his face. When he finished, there was a long silence.
"You could've been hurt," she said.
"Yes."
"You could've walked away."
"Yes."
"And you didn't."
"No."
She exhaled slowly, as if letting go of something she'd been holding since she arrived. Then she leaned forward and hugged him—tight, grounding, unambiguous.
The contact broke something open.
Ethan felt the aftershock hit all at once: the delayed fear, the self-doubt, the image of how easily the night could've gone another way. His chest tightened, breath hitching before he could stop it.
Maya didn't say anything. She just stayed there, arms firm around him, anchoring him through the wave until it passed.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes burned, but his head felt clearer than it had in days.
"I hate that you had to do that," she said quietly. "But I'm proud of you."
Pride. Another exposure point.
They moved to the couch. Sat side by side, knees touching. The city outside had gone quiet again, as if nothing had happened at all.
"Does this kind of thing happen a lot?" she asked.
"Not often," Ethan said. "That's what makes it dangerous."
She tilted her head. "You talk about risk the way most people talk about weather."
He gave a faint smile. "Weather doesn't care if you're ready."
She studied him. "You carry responsibility for things that aren't yours."
He didn't deny it.
They talked until the tension unwound completely—about the party, about Lena, about Noah and the apartment and how empty it felt now. About Maya's fear of becoming emotionally overleveraged. About Ethan's fear of becoming numb.
At some point, she rested her head on his shoulder. This time, he didn't note the exposure. He let it be what it was.
Later, much later, as dawn hinted faintly at the edges of the sky, Maya traced a small circle on the back of his hand.
"You don't have to be alone in this version of your life," she said.
Ethan closed his eyes.
The aftershock had changed the terrain. Not dramatically—but enough that old maps no longer applied.
"I know," he said. And for the first time, he meant it without reservation.
Outside, the city prepared for another ordinary day.
Inside, Ethan felt something rare and dangerous settle in his chest.
Stability.
Not the false kind markets promised.
The human kind.
And he wasn't sure yet whether it would make him stronger—or cost him everything he thought he was building.
Either way, there was no going back.