Chapter 4
Ava
The safehouse isn’t what I expected.
It’s quiet.
Not abandoned—controlled.
Minimal furniture. Clean surfaces. No personal touches. No trace of a life lived here.
Just a place to exist between missions.
Which means it’s exactly the kind of place Ethan would choose.
Invisible. Efficient. Untouchable.
I step inside first, sweeping the room automatically—corners, windows, exits.
Clear.
Too clear.
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
He really did move on.
Of course he did.
Eight years.
For him.
For me… six months.
Six months since everything came back—memories crashing in all at once, like they’d just been waiting for the right moment to break me open.
Six months of remembering him.
The door shuts behind me.
Locks. Multiple.
I don’t turn around.
I feel him anyway.
Too close.
Too aware.
“You’re clear,” he says.
His voice sounds different in here.
Lower.
Quieter.
Like the walls are holding something in.
“I already checked,” I reply.
“I know.”
Silence stretches between us.
Not empty.
Loaded.
I set the bag on the table—but keep my hand wrapped around the strap.
Not letting go.
Not yet.
“Bathroom?” I ask.
“Hall. Second door.”
I nod.
“I’ll get you clothes,” he adds.
I move past him.
Close enough that my shoulder almost brushes his.
The air shifts.
His body reacts—I feel it before I even process it.
Mine does too.
That’s a problem.
A big one.
I lock the bathroom door behind me.
Turn on the light.
And finally—
finally—
I let myself breathe.
Just once.
My reflection stares back at me.
Bruised. Exhausted. Alive.
But my eyes…
My eyes aren’t the same.
They’re sharper now.
Harder.
Because I remember everything.
The explosion.
The blood.
The voices telling me I wasn’t supposed to survive.
Then nothing.
Years of nothing.
Until six months ago.
It started in fragments.
Flashes. Names. Faces.
Then the truth.
I reach under my shirt and pull the waterproof pouch free, checking it instinctively.
Still there.
Still intact.
The real reason they’re hunting me.
The bag?
That’s just insurance.
This—
this is what gets people killed.
A knock hits the door.
Sharp.
Controlled.
“Open it.”
I close my eyes briefly.
There he is.
Still giving orders.
Still expecting me to follow them.
“Give me a minute.”
“You’ve had one.”
A small, involuntary smile tugs at my mouth.
God… I missed that.
I hate that I missed that.
I unlock the door.
Ethan is right there when it opens.
Too close.
His eyes sweep over me instantly—assessing, calculating, checking for damage.
It’s automatic.
And something in my chest twists because I remember when that look meant more than survival.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
“I’ve been worse.”
“That’s not the point.”
I lean against the doorframe.
Cross my arms.
“Then stop asking questions you don’t want answers to.”
His jaw tightens.
A crack.
Small.
But real.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the main room.
I don’t move.
“Still not taking orders.”
His gaze holds mine.
Steady.
Unyielding.
“Then consider it a suggestion you should take if you don’t want to pass out in the hallway.”
I push him.
Just a little.
“You planning on catching me?”
The shift is immediate.
His expression darkens—not anger.
Something heavier.
Something I remember.
“You don’t want to test that,” he says quietly.
My stomach flips.
That tone…
I turn before I do something stupid—like stay exactly where I am.
I move to the couch and sit.
He disappears briefly, then comes back with a med kit.
And then—
he kneels.
That alone almost knocks the air out of me.
Because Ethan Cross doesn’t kneel.
Not for anyone.
Except—
No.
Don’t go there.
He takes my arm without asking.
His touch is firm. Careful. Familiar in a way that hits too deep.
“You’re lucky,” he mutters. “Missed anything vital.”
“I tend to do that.”
His grip tightens slightly.
“Stop talking.”
I let out a breath.
“Still bossy.”
“Still alive.”
That shuts me up.
For a second.
The room quiets.
Just the sound of him working—cleaning, wrapping, fixing.
His hands are steady.
But every now and then…
they pause.
Like he’s remembering something he shouldn’t.
Like touching me is costing him control.
“You cut your hair,” I say.
Stupid.
Irrelevant.
Too personal.
His hands still for half a beat.
Then continue.
“You disappeared.”
That one lands.
Hard.
Fair.
I swallow.
“I didn’t choose that.”
His eyes lift to mine.
Sharp.
Searching.
“Didn’t you?”
There’s too much in that question.
Too much history.
I shake my head.
Slow.
Careful.
“I woke up and didn’t even know my own name.”
Silence.
Real this time.
He studies me like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying.
If I’m manipulating him.
If I’m still the woman he knew.
“I remembered you first,” I say quietly.
I don’t know why I say it.
Maybe because it’s true.
Maybe because I need it to matter.
His hand stops completely.
His grip tightens.
“Do you expect me to believe that?” he asks.
I meet his eyes.
Don’t look away.
“I would never lie about that.”
The air shifts.
Something fragile.
Something dangerous.
He finishes the bandage—but doesn’t let go right away.
His hand stays there.
Warm.
Anchoring.
My breath catches.
His gaze drops—
to my mouth.
Just for a second.
That’s all it takes.
Six months for me.
Eight years for him.
And suddenly it doesn’t feel like time passed at all.
I remember everything.
The way he used to look at me right before he kissed me.
The way my body used to react before I could think.
The way—
No.
Too much.
I shift.
Break it.
“Your turn,” I say, nodding toward his shoulder. “You’re hit.”
He doesn’t move.
“Focus, Ava.”
“I am focused.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re remembering.”
My breath catches.
Because he’s right.
Because he still knows me.
Because I hate that he still knows me.
“Maybe I don’t have eight years of distance to hide behind,” I shoot back.
That lands.
He leans back slowly.
Creates space.
Finally.
“There it is,” he says.
“What?”
“The difference.”
I frown.
He runs a hand through his hair.
“For you, it’s been months,” he says. “For me… I buried you eight years ago.”
The words hit like a punch.
“I didn’t die,” I say softly.
His eyes snap back to mine.
Cold. Sharp.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s becoming real clear.”
Silence falls again.
Heavier now.
More fragile.
I reach for the bag.
His entire body tenses.
“Don’t.”
I look up at him.
Steady.
“You asked what I have.”
“That was before I got you inside.”
“And now?”
His jaw tightens.
“Now I decide who sees it.”
Of course.
Still him.
Still control.
I unzip the bag anyway.
Slow.
Deliberate.
His eyes track every movement.
Good.
He should be paying attention.
Because this changes everything.
I pull the file from the hidden pouch.
Not the bag.
The pouch.
The real one.
I meet his gaze.
“This isn’t just a list,” I say.
His expression hardens.
“Then what is it?”
I slide the file across the table.
“It’s a map.”
He doesn’t move.
“A map to what?”
I hold his gaze.
“To dismantle everything they’ve built.”
A beat.
Then—
“Or destroy it,” I add quietly.
And just like that—
whatever this was between us—
past, pain, unfinished—
it gets swallowed by something bigger.
A lot bigger.