Page 131 of Fractured Loyalties

He turns toward the bathroom without a word. I hear the water start. Then his voice, thrown casually over his shoulder like it doesn’t matter:

“Don’t leave the house today.”

I narrow my eyes at his back. “Wasn’t planning to.”

But that’s not the same as agreeing.

Because the thing about stillness?

It only lasts until the next move.

And I’m not sure who’s going to make it first.

I dress while the water runs.

Not slowly. Not like a woman savoring the feel of worn cotton or cool air on damp skin. I dress like I might need to run before the next breath. Like armor. Like every layer might be the last one anyone sees.

T-shirt. Black. Jeans, tight enough to hold a knife in the waistband. Elias’s hoodie, zipped up to the collarbone. Hair back. No makeup. No softness.

The water shuts off. The door doesn’t open.

I leave the bedroom before it does.

The hallway is too quiet. The way it always is when something’s shifting just beneath the floorboards.

I pass the security panel. No alerts. But that doesn’t mean it’s clean. It just means the thing watching us knows how to breathe without being heard.

In the kitchen, I make coffee.

One scoop too strong. I don’t wait for it to finish before I pour the first mug. Bitter steam burns my throat on the first sip.

My phone pings on the counter.

I stare at it for a full second before I flip it over.

UNKNOWN ID: “Still breathing?”

No name. No header. But I know who it is.

Not Caleb. Worse.

This one doesn’t have a voice yet. Just a presence. A careful, quiet push against the edges of my life. One I can feel but can’t identify.

I don’t respond.

Elias walks into the kitchen barefoot, damp hair darkening the collar of his black T-shirt. He doesn’t speak until he’s poured his own cup and sipped it once.

Then: “You got something.”

I nod. “So did you.”

He raises a brow.

I tilt my phone toward him. Let him read the message.

He goes still.

“Is that the same string as the one from yesterday?” he asks.