Chapter 6 Ava
Ava
The car is stolen.
Black. Low profile. Nothing about it stands out.
The kind of vehicle that disappears the second it blends into traffic.
Ethan slides behind the wheel like he’s done this a thousand times.
He probably has.
I climb into the passenger seat and shut the door just as the engine turns over.
We’re moving before I even reach for the seatbelt.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
“That was fast,” I say, scanning the mirrors, the street behind us, reflections in passing windows.
“I keep options nearby,” he replies.
Of course he does.
I settle back slightly, eyes still moving.
Streetlights flicker out one by one as the city starts to wake. A few early cars. A couple pedestrians. Nothing that feels wrong—
but nothing that feels safe either.
“Anyone on us?” he asks.
I check again. Slower this time.
More deliberate.
“No,” I say. “Which means they’re not chasing.”
“They’re positioning,” he finishes.
Exactly.
And that’s worse.
Silence settles between us.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… heavy.
Everything between us is sitting there, waiting for one of us to touch it.
I’m the one who does.
Because I always was.
“For me, it’s only been six months.”
The words come out before I can stop them.
Ethan’s grip tightens on the wheel.
Just slightly.
“I figured.”
I turn toward him.
“You don’t get it.”
His jaw shifts.
“Then explain it.”
So I do.
Because if he doesn’t understand this—
he doesn’t understand me.
“Six months ago, I didn’t even know my own name,” I say quietly. “Then everything came back. All of it. You included.”
A breath.
“It didn’t come back in order. It wasn’t gradual. It just… hit.”
His eyes stay on the road.
But he’s listening.
I can feel it.
“I didn’t have time to grieve you,” I continue. “I didn’t get to move on. One second you were gone—and the next you were… right there again.”
His hands tighten on the wheel.
Still controlled.
Still contained.
“For you, it’s been years,” I say. “For me… it still feels recent.”
A long silence follows.
The kind that presses in instead of fading out.
“I didn’t move on,” he says finally.
The words are quiet.
But they land.
I swallow.
“Then what did you do?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“I adjusted.”
That sounds like him.
Cold. Efficient.
Survive first. Deal with the damage later.
If at all.
I look back out the window.
The city passing in a blur.
“For me, it’s different,” I say softer now. “It still feels like I saw you a few weeks ago.”
That gets his attention.
His eyes flick toward me—just for a second.
“Say it,” he says.
I shake my head.
“No.”
“Say it, Ava.”
My pulse jumps.
Damn him.
“Yesterday you were mine,” I say before I can stop it.
Silence fills the car.
Thick. Immediate.
Ethan’s jaw tightens hard enough I can see it.
“That was eight years ago.”
Not for me.
The words sit there—but I don’t say them.
Because I already did.
In a different way.
We drive for a few more minutes in silence.
The kind that isn’t empty.
Just… unfinished.
Then the road changes.
We leave the city behind.
The airstrip comes into view.
Small. Private. Isolated.
Perfect.
Ethan pulls the car behind a hangar and kills the engine.
For a second—
neither of us moves.
No engine.
No city noise.
Just us.
Which might be the most dangerous situation we’ve been in yet.
“I didn’t get to choose losing you,” I say quietly.
His head turns slowly.
His eyes lock onto mine.
“And I didn’t get to choose burying you,” he fires back.
There it is.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Good.
Because I’m done pretending this doesn’t matter.
“I woke up alone,” I say. “With people watching me like I belonged to them. I didn’t even know your name at first.”
His expression shifts.
Barely.
“You remembered,” he says.
“I remembered you first.”
The words hang between us.
Fragile.
Important.
Real.
His gaze drops—not away, just… down.
Like he’s processing that.
Like it matters more than he wants it to.
“I would’ve come back,” I add. “If I’d known. If I’d remembered. I didn’t even know where to start.”
His eyes lift again.
Sharp.
Focused.
“Yeah,” he says. “I wish you had.”
That one hurts.
More than I expect.
“You think I wouldn’t have?” I push. “You think I chose not to?”
His silence is answer enough.
And I hate it.
Because it means he doesn’t trust that.
Doesn’t trust me.
“Say something,” I press.
His voice is low when it comes.
“I don’t know who you are right now.”
That one lands deeper than anything else.
Because the truth is—
I don’t either.
Not completely.
Not anymore.
We sit there.
Too close.
Too much history.
Too many things left unsaid.
Then—
an engine sound cuts through the air.
Low.
Approaching.
Ethan’s head turns instantly.
Everything shifts.
Emotion gone.
Replaced by focus.
By threat.
“Stay here,” he says.
I don’t even respond.
I’m already reaching for my weapon.
He glances at me.
A flicker of something in his eyes.
Approval.
Frustration.
Both.
“Of course,” he mutters.
The plane isn’t the problem.
The SUV that follows it—
that’s the problem.
Dark. Fast. Wrong.
“Company,” I say.
“Yeah.”
Ethan’s door opens.
I’m already moving.
Gunfire erupts before we even reach the hangar.
Too fast.
Too precise.
“They’re ahead of us,” I say.
Ethan nods once.
“Not for long.”
His hand catches mine for half a second as we move.
Not to stop me.
Not to guide me.
Just—
contact.
Recognition.
Memory.
Then it’s gone.
We take cover behind stacked crates as bullets tear through metal around us.
“Three shooters,” I say.
“Four,” he corrects.
I adjust instantly.
“Left flank’s mine.”
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
I almost smile.
“Try and stop me.”
We move at the same time.
Perfect sync.
Like we never stopped.
Like nothing between us ever broke.
And somewhere between the gunfire—
between the chaos—
between the fact that we shouldn’t trust each other at all—
I realize something I probably should’ve figured out sooner.
It doesn’t matter how much time passed.
It doesn’t matter how much changed.
Because when everything falls apart—
when it really matters—
Ethan and I?
We still fight like we belong on the same side.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.