Page 60 of Daisy

"Mrs. Taylor," he breathes.

Shit. August's scent spikes with distress. This woman has been nothing but kind to him.

"I have to answer," he whispers.

Every instinct screams no. Too dangerous. But I see the pain in his face. The guilt.

"Make it fast," I growl.

August opens the door just enough to see her. Sweet beta woman, gray hair and kind eyes. She's holding a container of something that smells like chicken broth.

"Oh, August!" Relief floods her voice. "You look terrible. Are you alright?"

"Just a bug," August lies smooth. "Been sleeping it off."

"Well, this will help. My grandmother's recipe." She tries to hand him the container.

"That's very kind, but?—"

"Nonsense. You're skin and bones." Her scent carries concern. Genuine worry for him.

I stay hidden in the bedroom, but I can feel August's conflict through our bond. This is what he's giving up. Community. People who care about him. Normal life where the biggest worry is catching a cold.

"Mrs. Taylor, I really appreciate this, but?—"

"Is someone in there with you?" Her voice sharpens. "I heard voices."

Fuck. August's scent spikes with panic. I move to the doorway, let her see me. Keep my posture relaxed. Non-threatening as I can manage.

"Ma'am," I say quiet.

Her eyes go wide. Take in my size, my scars. But August steps closer to me, and that seems to settle her some.

"Oh, Cassian." Her voice softens with recognition. "How are you, dear?"

"Good, ma'am," I say quiet.

"Well." She rallies, focuses back on August. "You just make sure you eat this. And come back to work when you're feeling better. The library isn't the same without you."

"I will," August promises. Another lie.

When she's gone, August leans against the closed door. His scent carries grief.

"She's going to worry," he says quietly.

"She'll be safe. That matters more."

August nods, but I can see the weight of leaving this behind in his expression. Not regret - never that. Just the heaviness of saying goodbye to the life we built.

"We're doing the right thing," he says, more to himself than to me.

The certainty in his voice steadies something in my chest. Because he's right. We are doing the right thing.

"Then let's finish this," he says.

We pack fast after that. Two bags each. Basics only. I grab my tools, the good ones I use for legitimate work. August takes his books, carefully wrapping a small stuffed owl in one of his sweaters. Something from his childhood, worn soft from years of comfort. The poetry book goes on top.

Our phones go in the junk drawer. Untraceable now.