Elias is on his feet the second I enter. Jacket still on, phone clenched in his hand. His eyes rake over me—coat, hair, face.
“Dalia.”
I’ve never been so glad to hear his voice. He is still fully dressed, hair mussed from raking his hands through it too many times, worry carved into the corners of his mouth. His eyes sweep over me like a searchlight, over and over. Not invasive, just frantic. Silently counting limbs, looking for damage.
His voice is gravel. “Jesus, Dalia.”
My arms ache from tension I haven’t let go of yet.
“I’m fine,” I say, and it’s a lie, and we both know it.
Elias crosses to me in two long strides. He doesn’t touch me but he’s close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his body, close enough that if I shifted even slightly, I’d brush against his chest.
“I thought—” He stops himself. Clenches his jaw. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t know where to land.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
“This could have been disastrous,” His voice breaks on it.
“I had to make them believe I was one of them.”
“And if something had happened to you?”
“Nothing did.”
“That’s not the point, Dalia.”
He says my name like it’s been burning the back of his throat for hours. I exhale. It comes out shaky and my legs are threatening to give, and maybe he sees it—because suddenly his hands hover just inches from my arms, not touching, but ready.
“I need to sit,” I mutter.
He backs away instantly, giving me space without making it feel like distance. I sink onto the couch, legs folding beneath me, spine bowed. He lowers himself beside me and his knee brushes mine. He doesn’t move it.
“Are you hurt?” he asks softly. “Anywhere?”
I shake my head.
And then—
His hand, fingertips only, rests on my forearm, barely even there. As light as breath, but I feel it like an electric current. Steady. Anchoring. He’s trembling. I can feel it on my skin, the aftershock of what-ifs. I should pull away. I should say something dry or deflective or sharp.
But I don’t. Instead, I put my hand over his, realizing I’m also shaking. I don’t look at him when I say it.
“I thought about you.”
He doesn’t speak, just gently turns his hand over squeezing mine like it’s a lifeline, the way someone keeps you tethered to something human when the rest of the world is trying to rip that part of you away. I slightly tighten my grip. Neither of us lets go.
I exhale through my nose, eyes closed. “They made him confess.”
My thoughts trail off and I suddenly realize my fingertips sting, probably from when I touched the hot chain. Elias’s eyes drop to my hands as I’m staring at it.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“You trusted me.”
“I always trust you.” His eyes flick up to mine. The words settle between us like dust, unavoidable, weightless and heavy all at once. I trust him too.
“You look like hell.”
“Yeah. Well.” He gives me a dry smile. “You try sitting in a room, picturing someone you—”
He stops himself and I feel my throat tighten. I look at him fully then, really look. There’s something about the way he sits, the careful stillness, like he’s trying not to shake apart in front of me. The lamp behind him casts shadows across his jaw, softening the edges. He has the kind of face people remember—handsome, open, trustworthy. It’s why suspects talk to him. And he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
I don’t deserve that look.
His thumb strokes once over the back of my hand, then he slowly pulls away.
“You’re good at this,” I whisper.
“Good at what?”
“Making me feel like I’m not coming apart.” I glance down at his hand.
I want to say thank you.
I want to say don’t let go.
“You should sleep,” I say. The words come out soft and brittle.
He smiles, just slightly. “You first.”
I snort. “That’s not happening.”
He lets his head fall back against the couch, blonde strands still messy. For a moment, I think the tension might break there, splinter into something lighter, but he turns toward me again, and something in his eyes drags us both back down.
“You scared me,” he says, voice barely audible.
I blink.
“There was this one moment…” His jaw tightens. “I thought it was going to be the last time I saw you.”
I shift and press my forehead gently to his shoulder. It’s more than I’ve given anyone in years. He doesn’t say more, just turns his head slightly until his cheek brushes the top of my hair.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I murmur.
His hand lifts again, rests lightly against my back. I feel the warmth of it through the layers of cotton, seeping in. My whole body feels like it’s trying to lean into him without permission. He was the only voice I imagined through the dark, in those moments when Jonas picked me. My mouth opens. Closes. There are too many things I want to say. That I’m scared too. That I keep waking up with her name on my tongue—Wren—and I don’t know what it would do to me if we found her like that body in the farmhouse. That I don’t know how to be someone soft anymore.
But I say none of it. Because this moment feels safe and I don’t want to break it.
So I stay where I am against him, letting myself exist there.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Wren stands in the doorway, lit from behind like a silhouette cut from light.
The hallway stretches too long, warped like a photograph held too close to flame. Its walls bulge and breathe, as if the entire space is alive and waiting. Wallpaper peels in long, curling strips, sagging like the tired skin of something ancient. Wren doesn’t blink or move. She’s barefoot. The sleeves of her pink hoodie hang too far past her wrists, stained darker at the ends. There’s something wrong with her hands. I can’t see them clearly, but they twitch every so often like she’s trying to hold something invisible.
“Wren,” I say again, voice catching in my throat like a bad memory. “Sweetheart.”
Her mouth opens slowly, like it hurts and I expect her to call for me but no sound comes out. Her lips shape something else entirely. Something I can’t name, but I feel it in my bones. Behind her, shadows drip down the walls like oil, thick and slow. A flickering light sputters overhead. It’s not electric, more like fire caught under glass.
There is a heavy chain around Wren’s neck. The charm rests against her chest, catching the flickering light just enough for me to recognize the spiral. The same spiral that burned into the boy’s skin. The same one carved into the floorboards in the farmhouse.
My breath stutters. “No, baby, not that. You can’t wear that—”
Her arms lift, but they’re not her arms. Too long. Too pale. The skin shifts with the wrong kind of bend, like joints rearranged under pressure. She holds her hands out to me, blood dripping from her fingertips in slow streams. It spatters the carpet, but the carpet doesn’t soak it up.
“Give her back,” she whispers. It’s not Wren’s voice. An echo behind an echo. A child speaking with a voice too deep, too old.
The walls stretch taller. The hallway closes in. I take a step, but my feet stick like glue to the floor. A second step, harder. My knees tremble. I have to get to her. I have to—
But she’s already stepping back, melting into the dark.
“No—Wren!”
A sudden heat floods the hallway. The spiral glows. Not only on the pendant anymore, but everywhere, crawling up the walls, curling around the doorframes, etched into the ceiling like constellations of suffering. The light is gold, then white. Behind Wren, a figure appears, arms outstretched like a parody of salvation.
“You gave up on her,” the voice says.
“No.” My throat burns. “I never stopped looking.”
Wren’s eyes flick up, and this time, she sees me. She opens her mouth and screams—
The door crashes open like a gunshot.
“Dalia—”
His voice cuts through the haze like a blade but my name is reshaped into something gentler. I’m already halfway upright, heart still jackhammering against my ribs, hands clenched in the motel sheets. I feel him before I see him—Elias. The weight of him on the edge of the bed, the heat from his body sinking into mine like a shock to the system. His hands don’t touch me at first, but they hover. I can feel the indecision in the air. Then one finds my shoulder, warm and steady. No pressure. Presence.
“I’m okay,” I lie, barely a whisper. My voice is hoarse. My throat burns.
“You screamed.” I can barely see him in the darkness. “You said her name.”
I close my eyes. My fingers curl tighter in the blanket. “It was just a dream.”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
It’s too much—the cult gathering, Wren, his voice, the fact that he came running.
“I saw Wren,” I say. “She was in a hallway. She had the spiral on, like it was hers. Marked.”
He doesn’t say anything, just listens, lets the quiet stretch, thick and necessary.
“She didn’t say anything at first. Only… stared. And then someone was behind her.”
My chest tightens again. My whole body’s still vibrating, like the dream’s trying to pull me back under.
“It’s just my brain messing with me,” I say quickly. “Trauma paints ghosts.”
Elias doesn’t argue. He just reaches down and takes one of my hands—slowly, like he’s afraid I might break.
“I know,” he says. “But it still feels real.”
I let him hold my hand. His skin is warm, fingers callused. He rubs his thumb over the back of mine, a small, anchoring motion that makes it harder to breathe in the best and worst way.
“I hate that it still gets me like this.”
“You’re allowed,” he says.
I finally look at him. His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled like he threw it on without thinking. There’s something in his face—tight, quiet, strung with worry like he’s trying not to show it but doesn’t quite succeed.
The contact makes my heart stutter.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs.
Something in me crack, just enough to let the ache in. I nod. I don’t trust my voice.
We sit like that for a long moment, my hand in his, his presence wrapped around me like armor. The edges of the dream fade. The motel walls feel solid again. The sheets, though damp with sweat, don’t feel like restraints anymore. He releases my hand, but it’s not abrupt. His fingers trail away like a secret he doesn’t want to give up. He stands slowly, gaze lingering.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says.
I watch him leave. The door clicks softly behind him, and I stay where I am, sitting in bed, fingers still tingling where his had been.
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