Elizabeth
Just two days until the mission.
The safe house lay in calm repose, nestled among ancient pines, where the world felt distant and muted.
It was a sanctuary meant for waiting, for silence, for vanishing until the moment of action arrived.
Yet tonight, there was a warmth in the air, a softness that wrapped around us like a cozy blanket.
Maybe it was the wine we were sipping. Or perhaps it was Noah.
We were sprawled on the floor, files and blueprints strewn about, half-read and half-forgotten.
The fire in the corner crackled softly, casting playful golden glimmers across the hardwood.
Noah was immersed in his reading, his focus intense, jaw clenched, eyes glinting with purpose.
But now and then, he'd steal a glance at me, as if needing reassurance that I was still there.
“I think this guy’s lying,” he said, tapping a part of the report. “The timestamps don’t line up with his claimed movements across the checkpoint.”
I leaned in a little closer. “We know he’s lied before. A clean face but dirty hands.”
Noah nodded slowly, reaching for his wine. “Do you think he’ll crack if we push him hard enough?”
“If we aim in the right spot.”
He flashed a small grin. “You always know where to aim.”
I didn’t reply, opting instead to sip my wine, letting the warmth wash over me just enough to keep me anchored.
Outside, the wind shifted, and the steady patter of rain began to tap against the windows. I turned my head, watching the rain fall—a gentle, silver blur painting the night.
“It’s really coming down,” I murmured.
Noah leaned back, propping himself on one arm beside me. “You like the rain?”
“It reminds me that something can be both violent and cleansing at the same time.”
He fell silent for a moment, then, with a voice that was both tender and a tad dangerous, he said, “Tell me more.”
I blinked in surprise. “About what?”
“You.”
That one word hung between us, sharp and daunting.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” I admitted.
“Anywhere that feels real.”
I took another sip of my wine, my fingers tightening around the stem, knuckles paling.
“My mother,” I began quietly, “was the very definition of elegance. Always poised. She believed that softness was a weakness, so she turned affection into a prize. Smiles for perfection, silence for mistakes. She loved me… but only under certain conditions.”
Noah listened intently, his gaze unwavering.
“I was trained to move like a dancer and think like a machine. Private tutors, combat instructors, protocols, poise. Cameras were everywhere—not for security, but because appearances were everything.”
My voice wavered, fragile now.
“I remember when I was seven, I cried after a sparring session. My instructor had dislocated my shoulder. I didn’t scream, but the tears fell. My father walked in, looked down at me, and said, ‘If pain makes you hesitate, it will kill you. Don’t let it happen again.’”
Noah’s expression shifted, something breaking inside him.
“My childhood was like a performance,” I continued. “Every day, I was reminded that I wasn’t just a daughter. I was a legacy, a symbol—something to be honed until I shined.”
The fire crackled softly beside us, a comforting sound. I glanced down at my wine, my reflection warped and fractured in the glass.
“I don’t know who I’d be without that pressure,” I confessed. “Or if there’s anything left beneath it.”
He leaned in closer, his voice steady. “There is.”
I shook my head.
“You don’t really know that.”
“I see it,” he replied softly.
That’s when it hit me—the way he looked at me, as if I were something tender, something whole. As if I wasn’t still bleeding underneath the surface.
I hated that look, yet I craved it. It left me feeling exposed, and then he said the one thing I feared most.
“I know what that feels like.”
I shot up, the words piercing me like shards of glass.
“No,” I insisted. “You don’t.”
His expression remained steady, but I could sense the weight shift between us.
“You think you do,” I snapped, pacing now, the wine forgotten. “But you couldn’t possibly know. You weren’t raised to be palatable. You weren’t molded into a weapon before you even learned how to laugh without seeking permission.”
“Liz—”
“My feelings were monitored. My choices were predetermined. I was trained to wield a fork in one hand and a knife in the other while knowing how to take a life in six seconds flat. I didn’t live, Noah. I was curated. Controlled.”
He rose to his feet, his voice low and steady.
“I’m not comparing. I’m trying to understand.”
“Don’t,” I said sharply. “Don’t try to relate just to feel closer. It doesn’t work that way.”
I saw the hurt flicker in his eyes before he could mask it, and that hurt me even more.
Because the closer he drew, the more the walls I’d constructed began to tremble—and I wasn’t ready for them to crumble.
“Liz,” he said softly once more. “Why are you running from this?”
“Because if you see me,” I said, my voice trembling, “truly see me, and still choose to care—I won’t know how to handle that. Because I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”
Before he could respond, I turned and headed for the door.
The storm had grown louder, thunder rumbling in the distance, rain crashing against the trees like a round of applause.
I stepped into the downpour without a second thought, the cold biting through my shirt, soaking my hair, my skin, my breath. I didn’t run out of anger.
I ran because I was scared. Scared that this—he—could make me feel human again, and I had no idea how to navigate being human. Not when I was shaped to be anything but.