[Sophie’s POV]

The next morning back in my apartment, I wake to unfamiliar sounds.

Not unfamiliar because they’re strange—unfamiliar because they’re domestic. The soft clink of dishes, porcelain meeting porcelain with careful precision. Water running, a gentle rush through pipes I know intimately. The low murmur of voices trying not to disturb me, words indistinct but tones warm, concerned, present.

I lie still for a moment, staring at my own ceiling, relearning the cracks and shadows I used to know by heart. There’s a water stain in the corner that looks vaguely like a rabbit—I’d noticed it my first night here, years ago, and never bothered to fix it. The morning light filters through curtains I picked out with such care, casting familiar patterns across walls that should feel like home.

The bedroom smells like my laundry detergent, my shampoo, the faint ghost of the perfume I stopped wearing weeks ago when everything started to feel like too much effort. It should be comforting, being back in my own space. These are my sheets, my pillows, my life contained within these four walls.

Instead, it feels like visiting a crime scene.

The last time I was in this bed, I didn’t sleep. I sat against the headboard with my laptop, the screen’s blue glow the only light in the darkness, researching train schedules and rental apartments in Boston and how to disappear without leaving too many traces. I packed that suitcase in the dark, crying so quietly my throat ached for days afterward, folding clothes with trembling hands while my heart shattered into pieces too small to reassemble.

And now I’m back. Not because I chose to return, but because my body betrayed my exit strategy. My escape plan derailed by dehydration and stress and the tiny life growing inside me that refused to let me run.

“She’s awake.”

Adrian’s voice, soft but certain, drifts from the doorway. I turn my head to find him leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with an expression caught between relief and concern. He looks tired—shadows under his eyes suggesting he didn’t sleep much either, his hair slightly disheveled in a way that’s endearing rather than careless.

“How do you know?” I ask, my voice rough with sleep.

“You stopped breathing like someone unconscious. Your rhythm changed.”

“That’s either very observant or very creepy.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ve been told I’m both.”

The familiar banter loosens something tight in my chest. He’s still here. Despite everything—the suitcase, the secrets, the spectacular failure of my disappearing act—he’s still here.

He pushes off the doorframe and crosses to the bed, sitting on the edge with careful deliberation. The mattress dips under his weight, and I find myself leaning toward him instinctively, seeking warmth I didn’t realize I was missing. His presence fills the space in a way that makes the room feel less like a crime scene and more like a place where healing might be possible.

“Cassian made breakfast,” Adrian says. “Nothing fancy. Toast, fruit, some kind of egg situation he’s very proud of.”

“Egg situation?”

“I didn’t ask for details. He was using a lot of herbs.”

I almost smile. Almost. The image of Cassian in my small kitchen, carefully measuring herbs with the same precision he brings to everything, is both absurd and touching.

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