Ava didn't sleep.She lay on Ethan's couch, staring at the faint shadow where the ceiling met the wall, listening to the city breathe outside the windows. New York never truly went quiet—it only lowered its voice. Sirens became distant echoes and traffic softened into a constant hum.
Her body was exhausted but her mind refused to follow.Every time her eyes drifted closed, images rose uninvited—firelight flickering across walls, smoke clawing at her lungs, the sense of being watched even when she was alone,especially when she was alone.
She shifted slightly which made the couch creak.
Across the room, Ethan looked up instantly.
"You're awake," he said.
Ava exhaled slowly. "I don't think I will ever fall asleep."
Ethan sat at the small dining table, laptop open, one hand resting near it, the other loose but ready. He hadn't turned on more than one lamp or removed his boots. It felt like rest was a luxury he couldn't afford.
"You should try," he said.
"Every instinct I have says that's a bad idea." Ava said as she let out a quiet, humorless breath.
He considered that. "Your instincts have kept you alive so far."
"Barely."
Silence settled again, dense but not uncomfortable. It felt… deliberate,as if both of them understood that noise could shatter something fragile neither was ready to name.
Ava turned her head slightly, watching him without hiding it this time.
He looked carved out of stillness—broad shoulders relaxed but not loose, jaw tight with a focus that didn't fade even when he wasn't moving. The faint glow of the laptop reflected in his eyes, making them look darker than they had in daylight.
"Do you ever stop watching?" she asked quietly.
"No."
She swallowed. "Even when you're alone?"
"Especially then."
That answered more than she'd asked.
Her fingers curled into the edge of the blanket.
"You didn't have to let me stay."
Ethan closed the laptop halfway but didn't shut it completely. "Yes, I did."
She frowned slightly. "You could've walked away."
"So could you," he said.
She smiled faintly. "I tried but it seems I would die if I continue trying."
His mouth curved just enough to acknowledge the truth without forgiving it.
"You ran because you didn't trust me," he said.
"Yes."
"And because you don't trust anyone," he added.
She hesitated and then nodded. "That too."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, the wood
barely making a sound. "Trust isn't a switch. It's leverage."
"That sounds like experience." Ava said as her gaze sharpened.
"It is."
She studied him for a moment. "You talk like someone who's learned the cost of misplacing it."
"People don't betray you when they hate you," he said as his eyes flicked and held up to hers. "They do it when they're close enough to matter."
Ava shifted as chill slid down her spine, drawing her knees closer to her chest. The movement pulled the blanket tighter around her.
"I keep thinking," she said softly, "that if I'd ignored it—if I'd pretended I didn't see what I saw—this wouldn't be happening."
Ethan shook his head once. "That's a lie fear tells you to make itself feel useful."
She glanced at him. "And the truth?"
"The truth is that people like Hale don't exist because of witnesses," he said. "They exist because too many people look away."
"Then why does it feel like I started a war?" she whispered.
Ethan stood.The movement was slow, deliberate, giving her time to track him as he crossed the room. He stopped a careful distance from the couch—not looming, not retreating.
"You didn't start it," he said. "You stumbled into it."
She let out a shaky breath. "That's worse."
"No," he said quietly. "It means you weren't hunting. You were surviving."
That landed somewhere deep in her chest.
Her body betrayed her again—a yawn she couldn't suppress this time. She pressed her lips together, embarrassed.
Ethan noticed immediately. "Lie back."
She hesitated. "You're still awake."
"I will be," he said.
"That doesn't seem fair."
His gaze softened, just a fraction. "It's not about being fair."
She lay back slowly, the couch protesting under her weight. The blanket slipped slightly, and she tugged it back into place.
"You don't sleep," she said.
"Not when I'm responsible for someone else."
"What about when you're responsible for yourself?"
He didn't answer right away.
"When I do sleep," he said eventually, "I dream about fire."
Her chest tightened. "The apartment."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I know."
He didn't ask her to stop apologizing. He didn't wave it away either,he just let it exist.
"I don't want to be a liability," she said suddenly.
"You aren't," Ethan replied without hesitation.
"I mean it," she insisted. "I don't want you making choices for me because you think I can't handle the truth."
His jaw tightened slightly. "I won't."
She turned her head to look at him. "Promise."
He met her gaze fully now. "I don't promise safety," he said. "I promise honesty."
"I can live with that," she said.
The minutes stretched and her breathing slowed gradually, exhaustion finally winning ground. Her eyes fluttered, then opened again.
"Ethan?"
"Yes."
"If this ends badly," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "I don't want to disappear quietly."
"You won't," he said firmly. "You get a say. Always."
She nodded, reassured in a way that surprised her.
"Thank you."
She turned onto her side, facing the back of the couch, the city lights painting faint patterns across the wall.
Sleep crept in this time—hesitant, cautious.Ethan didn't move.He stayed where he was, listening to her breathing,to the building and to the city beyond the glass.
At some point, her breaths evened out completely meaning she had slept off.
Ethan rose silently and crossed the room, checking the locks again, the windows, the reflections in the darkened glass. He knew that somewhere out there
, Marcus Hale was already aware that something had shifted.
That Ava Brooks hadn't vanished and that Ethan Cross had chosen not to look away this time.