Page 54 of Fractured Loyalties

I lie there too long.

Then I ease out of bed.

I ease out of the bed without waking her. She exhales, turns slightly, curling into the space I just left. My shirt slips off her shoulder as she moves, exposing a line of skin that burns into my memory before I make myself look away.

My steps down the hall are silent. The kettle is already halfway full. I click it on without thinking. My hands move like they’re tracing muscle memory—check the locks, glance at the monitors, verify the outside sensors.

Routine. Structure. Anchor points. The shape of my morning hasn’t changed in five years.

Except now the scent in the hallway isn’t just cedar and steel and old leather. It’s her. Something warm and clean and wrong in a way I can’t name.

The kettle shrieks. I shut it off.

I try to drink the tea, but it tastes like a lie. I pour it out.

There’s a file on my desk waiting for me—printouts from Lydia, preliminary cross-checks on Caleb’s newest burner number. I open it, but the words don’t register.

Because I keep seeing the curve of her back. The way she said not yet. Like she wasn’t afraid of me, just of rushing something real.

I run both hands through my hair and sit.

It’s going to be a long morning.

And the worst part is—for the first time in a long time—I don’t want it to end.

I hear her before I see her. Bare feet on polished wood, the faint rustle of fabric brushing skin. She doesn’t call out. Doesn’t ask where I am.

Mara appears in the doorway like a ghost who knows she belongs here. One of my old black hoodies hangs off her frame,sleeves pushed up, her collarbone sharp and exposed. Her hair is sleep-creased, and she blinks like the light is too honest.

She doesn’t smile, but her face softens when she sees me.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” she says, voice quiet.

“This is one of the houses I live in.”

“You know what I mean.”

I nod once. She pads into the kitchen. Opens the cabinet without asking, finds a clean mug, pours what’s left of the tea I didn’t finish making.

“You made this for me?”

I glance over. “I tried.”

She sips it. Grimaces. “You make terrible tea.”

“That’s not news.”

We fall into silence that isn’t heavy. Just full.

Then she leans against the counter and watches me. “You didn’t sleep.”

“I did. Sort of.”

“You were awake when I touched you.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you move?”