Ethan
I feel it before I see it.
That prickle at the base of my neck. The sense of being counted.
Mara's walking beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, her steps matching mine without being told. She's learning. Fast. Too fast for someone who's supposed to be panicking.
We're halfway down the concourse when I catch the reflection — glass panel to my left, distorted by grime and light. A man who doesn't belong. He's moving against the flow. Watching us instead of his phone.
I don't break stride.
"Don't look," I murmur.
Her breath stutters. "Why?"
"Because I need you to trust me."
That's all I give her. It's enough.
The service corridor appears ahead — unmarked door, staff-only sign half peeled away. I adjust our angle like it's coincidence, like this was always where we were headed. With my stride, I'm three steps ahead of most people without trying. I use that now, subtly blocking sightlines as we move.
We're three steps from the door when I hear footsteps speed up behind us.
I grab her wrist and pull.
The door swings open. We're inside. I shove it closed just as voices pass on the other side.
Darkness swallows us whole.
The space is barely wider than my shoulders. Cleaning supplies. A humming vent. The smell of disinfectant and old dust. Mara's back hits the wall, and I'm suddenly aware of how small the room is — and how much space I take up in it. I tower over her without meaning to, my chest level with her face, my arm still wrapped around her wrist.
She inhales sharply.
I don't let go.
Footsteps stop outside.
A shadow moves under the crack of the door.
I lean down, lowering my mouth to her ear. "If you pull away, we're done."
Her fingers tighten around my sleeve, bunching fabric near my forearm.
"Okay," she whispers.
There's a pause outside. A murmur of voices. Too close. Too alert.
They're looking.
I shift my stance, boxing her in — not aggressive, not gentle. Deliberate. My body blocks the light completely, her view reduced to me and the narrow slice of wall behind my shoulders. My hand slides from her wrist to her waist, spanning more than it should, anchoring her there. She stiffens for half a second, then exhales and lets it happen.
Good.
I tilt my head down and bring my mouth to hers.
It's supposed to be brief. Convincing. Functional.
It's none of those things.
Her lips are warm. Soft. She has to tilt her face up to meet me, and that small adjustment does something I don't expect. She gasps, just barely, and that sound goes straight through me. I deepen it without meaning to, my thumb pressing into her hip to keep her steady. She responds — not eagerly, not shyly — just present. Real.
The world narrows to breath and heat and the awareness that I'm losing count of seconds.
Voices shift. Footsteps move on.
I don't pull back right away.
That's the mistake.
When I finally do, the air between us feels thinner than before. She's looking up at me now, eyes dark, searching my face like she's waiting for instructions that aren't coming.
I step back, creating space I didn't need a moment ago.
"They're gone," I say.
She nods, swallowing. "That was—"
"Necessary."
The word comes out harder than I intend.
Silence stretches. The hum of the vent fills it. I can still feel her mouth like it's branded into my nerves.
I reach for the door, then stop.
"We don't do that again unless we have to," I say.
Her lips part, then press together. "Okay."
But her voice isn't steady.
Neither is mine.
I open the door and step out first, scanning, resetting, locking everything back into place. When I turn, she's right behind me, close again — but not touching. She has to look up when she meets my eyes, and I look away first.
The city swallows us once more.
And I know, with a clarity that settles heavy in my chest—
Whatever line I was trying to keep intact?
I crossed it.