23

Carrie

I woke to the eerie stillness of a strange room, the kind of silence that settles over you and makes your skin prickle with unease. For a moment I didn’t know where I was—the walls were bare, the air smelled faintly of old wood and disinfectant, and the tiny window was sealed shut with blackout curtains. But then it all came rushing back: the note on the cabin door, the drive through the night, Nathan’s tense profile glowing in the dashboard light.

Nathan.

I sat up quickly, my heart thudding, my eyes darting around the room. The clock on the nightstand said 7:12 a.m., and I had no idea how long I’d slept or if anything had happened while I was out. Throwing off the covers, I padded quietly to the door and pressed my ear against it. Nothing. No voices. No movement.

I opened the door a crack and peeked out.

There he was—Nathan—sitting on a battered old couch, his back to me, head bowed, his shoulders stiff. His gun was on the table, along with a half-empty cup of coffee and a crumpled-up piece of paper he seemed to be gripping so tightly it might tear in two.

I stepped out fully, the floor creaking under my bare feet. He turned sharply, eyes narrowing before they softened at the sight of me.

“Morning,” I whispered.

“You should be sleeping.” His voice was rough, but not unkind. “It’s safe for now.”

“For now,” I repeated, crossing my arms over my chest. The weight of everything that had happened—the fear, the confusion, the adrenaline—came crashing down on me all at once. “I can’t sleep. Not when we’re… like this.”

Nathan stood up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked exhausted, his eyes shadowed, his hair a mess, like he hadn’t slept a wink. “We’re okay, Carrie. I promise you that.”

“You keep saying that,” I snapped, surprising myself. “But every time I start to feel safe, something else happens. Another threat. Another chase. I’m tired, Nathan. I’m tired of running.”

His eyes flashed with something—anger? Guilt?—but he kept his voice level. “I know you are. But running is what’s keeping you alive.”

I stared at him, my chest heaving. I hated that he was right. I hated that my life had become this endless spiral of fear. But more than anything, I hated that the one person who made me feel safe—the one man I was starting to trust—was keeping me at arm’s length, refusing to let me in no matter how much I tried to break through his walls.

“Talk to me,” I said, stepping closer to him. “Please. Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Nathan shook his head, his jaw tight. “Not now.”

“Why not? What are you so afraid of?”

He didn’t answer, just turned away and started pacing, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. I watched him, my heart twisting. He was carrying something—something heavy and dark—and it was eating him alive.

I crossed the room and placed a hand on his arm. “Nathan…”

He froze, his muscles taut under my touch. For a moment, I thought he might pull away again, retreat into that shell of his. But then, slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes searching mine like he was looking for something—hope, forgiveness, salvation.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know if I can keep you safe.”

My breath hitched. “You’re doing everything you can. You’ve already—”

“No.” He cut me off, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. This… this thing we’re caught up in—it’s bigger than you think. Bigger than me. And I… I’ve already lost too much.”

I stared at him, my throat tight. I wanted to ask what he meant—wanted to demand answers—but something in his eyes stopped me. There was so much pain there, so much regret. I couldn’t push. Not now.

Instead, I reached up and cupped his cheek, brushing my thumb lightly over his rough stubble. “You’re not alone in this, Nathan. Whatever happens… we’re in it together.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch for the briefest moment before stepping back, breaking the connection. “Get dressed,” he said gruffly. “We need to move again soon.”

And just like that, the walls were back up.

I watched him for a moment longer, then turned and went back to the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me. My heart ached, but I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t giving up on Nathan. Not now. Not ever.

I stood by the door for a long moment, my hand still resting on the knob, my breath catching in my throat. The room felt colder now, as though the warmth Nathan had given me—brief and fleeting—had disappeared the second he’d shut himself down again. I pressed my forehead lightly against the wood, closing my eyes, trying to summon strength from somewhere deep inside me.

He was hiding something, that much was clear. And as much as I wanted to push, to demand answers, I knew instinctively that he was the kind of man who only revealed things on his own terms, in his own time. But how long could I wait? How long could I keep dancing around these walls he’d built, pretending that the feelings blooming inside me weren’t real, weren’t growing stronger with every passing moment we spent together?

Sighing, I stepped away from the door and pulled on the first set of clothes I could find—an oversized sweater and jeans. My fingers trembled as I buttoned them up, not from the cold but from something deeper, something unsettling that had lodged itself inside me like a splinter: fear of the unknown, fear of losing the fragile connection we’d started to build.

When I finally walked back into the living room, Nathan was standing by the window, staring out into the dusky morning light, his posture tense, every line of his body humming with alertness. He didn’t turn as I approached, but I could tell he sensed me there—he always did.

“We should eat something before we go,” I said quietly, my voice feeling too loud in the heavy silence.

He nodded once, curtly, and I moved past him toward the tiny kitchenette, pulling open cabinets and drawers, searching for anything edible. I found a box of stale granola bars and a dusty jar of instant coffee. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

We ate in silence, seated across from each other at the small table. I kept my eyes on my hands, fiddling with the wrapper of my granola bar, but I could feel Nathan’s gaze flicking to me now and then, as though he was waging an internal battle—wanting to say something but holding back.

Finally, unable to take the tension anymore, I looked up and caught his eyes. “Are we safe here? Even for a little while?”

His jaw tensed. “For now. But not for long. We’ll keep moving.”

I nodded slowly, chewing my bottom lip. “And after that? What’s the plan, Nathan? Are we just going to keep running forever?”

His eyes darkened, his fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “We do what we have to do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I have right now.”

I stared at him, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “I can’t live like this forever,” I whispered. “Always looking over my shoulder. Always wondering who’s out there, waiting to hurt me.”

He leaned forward suddenly, his eyes burning with intensity. “Do you think I want this, Carrie? Do you think I want to keep dragging you from one hiding place to another? I’m doing everything I can to keep you alive.”

“And I’m grateful,” I said, my voice trembling. “I am. But I deserve to know the truth. I deserve to know what we’re really up against.”

Nathan’s shoulders sagged, and for a moment, he looked utterly defeated. He set his coffee cup down with a soft clink and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re right,” he murmured, almost too quietly to hear. “You deserve the truth. But it’s not something I can give you in bits and pieces. When I tell you… it’s going to change everything.”

My heart thudded painfully in my chest. “Then tell me.”

He looked at me, his eyes haunted, his lips parted like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. And then, just as quickly, he shook his head and stood up, breaking the moment. “Not yet. Soon.”

Tears stung the back of my eyes, but I blinked them away and nodded. I didn’t want to push him further, not when he was clearly struggling with his own demons. But inside, my resolve hardened: whatever he was hiding, whatever darkness he was carrying, I wasn’t going to let him bear it alone.

We packed up our things in silence, moving quickly and efficiently. I caught Nathan glancing at his watch several times, his brow furrowed with worry. I wanted to ask what he was thinking, but I kept my questions to myself, sensing that we were walking a tightrope and any wrong move could send us crashing down.

As we stepped outside, the chill of the early morning hit me full force, making me shiver. Nathan placed a protective hand on my back, guiding me toward the car, his eyes scanning the empty lot, always on alert. I felt a strange mix of fear and comfort at his touch—a reminder of how close we were and how far apart we still felt.

We drove in silence for what felt like hours, the road stretching out endlessly before us, the trees lining the highway blurring into a monotonous green-gray smear. I watched Nathan’s profile as he drove—his strong jaw, the slight furrow in his brow, the tight grip on the steering wheel—and wondered what was going through his mind.

And then, out of nowhere, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his eyes narrowing, and answered with a clipped, “Yeah?”

I couldn’t hear the other person’s voice, but whatever they said made Nathan’s knuckles whiten around the wheel. “How long?” he asked, his voice low and deadly calm. There was a pause, then he muttered, “Understood,” and hung up.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice shaking.

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes locked on the road ahead. Finally, he said, “They found us.”

A cold wave of fear washed over me. “What do we do?”

His jaw clenched. “We finish this.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and ominous, as the car sped forward into the unknown.