POV Noelle
Rhea never knocks, not when things matter. She taps twice—sharp, controlled—and waits exactly long enough to remind me she’s already reading the room from the other side of the door.
I let her in without a word.
She steps inside, eyes scanning automatically: corners, windows, the line of sight to the hallway that leads to Luna’s room. She doesn’t comment on the extra locks or the drawn blinds. She doesn’t ask if Owen is home. She already knows he isn’t.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” she says.
“I slept,” I reply. “I just didn’t stop thinking.”
Rhea’s mouth curves faintly. “That tracks.”
We sit at the kitchen table, the same one where Owen drank coffee this morning and kissed Luna’s forehead before leaving. Ordinary objects feel almost hostile now, like they’re witnesses to something I’m not allowed to say out loud.
I slide the flash drive across the table toward her. Rhea doesn’t touch it immediately. She looks at me instead, steady and unflinching:
“You’re sure you want to know who sent it and why?”
“Yes.”
She nods once, accepting the answer without arguing it again. That’s one of the reasons I called her. Rhea understands decisions made under pressure. She doesn’t need them explained twice.
“All right,” she says, finally picking up the drive. “Then we do this quietly. It means no digital footprints we don’t control. No shortcuts. No intimidation,” she says pointedly. “And it means you don’t panic if the answer isn’t simple.”
I swallow. “It won’t be.”
“No,” she agrees. “Leverage never is.”
She pulls her laptop from her bag and plugs the drive in without ceremony. Her fingers move fast, precise. Watching her work is like watching someone disassemble a weapon—calm, methodical, without emotion.
“You remember how we met,” she says suddenly, eyes still on the screen.
I do. I remember the sand, the heat, the way my hands shook after everything went wrong.
“You were bleeding,” she adds. “And you kept apologizing for taking up space.”
I wince. “I was in shock.”
“You were conditioned,” she corrects gently. “To minimize yourself so other people could stay big.”
Her gaze lifts to mine. “You’re doing it again. But this time, you’re minimizing the truth.”
I don’t answer. She lets the silence sit.
“I’ll trace the source,” Rhea continues. “Metadata first, and then the distribution path. Whoever sent this didn’t just want to scare you. They wanted to see what you’d do.”
“And what am I doing?” I ask quietly.
“Containing,” she says. “Like always.”
I press my lips together. “Is that a flaw now?”
“No,” Rhea replies. “It’s a strength. Until it isn’t.”
She closes the laptop and looks at me fully. “I need to ask you something. If the answer is someone Owen knows,” she says carefully, “are you still committed to keeping him out of it?”
My chest tightens. “Yes.”
She studies me. “Even if it’s someone who knows exactly how to hurt him.”
“Yes,” I repeat. “Because that’s exactly who would succeed.”
Rhea nods slowly. “All right. I’ll respect that. For now.”
The phrase lands heavier than I like.
She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll update you as soon as I have something. Don’t change your routines. Don’t confront anyone. And don’t underestimate how quickly people like this escalate when they realize you’re not panicking.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
She pauses at the door. “Noelle. You’re not weak for wanting peace, but peace isn’t the same as silence.”
After she leaves, the apartment feels hollowed out. Too quiet. Too still.
I move through the rooms without purpose, straightening things that don’t need straightening. When I pass Luna’s door, I pause, listening to her soft breathing.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. The lie tastes bitter even as I say it.
Owen comes home later than usual. I hear his keys before I see him, the familiar sound pulling my nerves tight. When he walks in, his presence fills the space automatically—solid, grounding, impossible to ignore.
“Hey,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. I tilt my face up, let him. His lips are warm, familiar. Safe.
He pulls back slightly, studying my face. “Something’s off.”
I force a smile. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s usually true.”
He sets his bag down and loosens his shoulders like he’s shedding armor. “Rhea was here.”
My stomach flips. “How did you—”
“I saw her car leaving the building,” he says calmly. “She doesn’t visit unless something’s wrong.”
“She’s my friend,” I reply.
“Yes,” he agrees. “And she’s ex-military with a very specific skill set.”
I cross my arms. “You’re reading too much into it.”
He steps closer. “Then tell me what I’m missing.”
The space between us tightens. This is the moment, the one where truth could spill out and take control away from me.
“I needed advice,” I say instead. “About… stress. About adjusting.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Adjusting to what?”
“Us,” I say softly.
The answer isn’t a lie. It’s just incomplete. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You don’t need to outsource us.”
“I didn’t,” I insist. “I just needed perspective.”
“From her?” He watches me like he’s trying to decide whether to push. Finally, he nods once. “Okay.”
Relief washes through me, sharp and immediate—and followed closely by guilt.
We eat dinner together. Talk about Luna. About nothing important. Owen laughs once, a real sound, and I cling to it like proof that I haven’t already broken something vital.
Later, in bed, he pulls me into him. His arm wraps around my waist, solid and familiar. I fit in there automatically.
“You already know that,” he murmurs into my hair, “but you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
The words pierce deeper than he realizes. He hums softly, content, and his breathing evens out. He falls asleep quickly.
I don’t. I stare into the dark, listening to the quiet space between our breaths. The truth sits heavy in my chest, pressing outward, demanding air.
Keeping this from him feels wrong. Like holding a door closed while something pounds on the other side. I tell myself I’m protecting him and Luna. Protecting the fragile calm we’ve built.
But as I lie there, alone inside my own thoughts, I feel the distance widening anyway. It’s not because of Owen’s but my move. And I don’t know how long I can keep walking this line without slipping—without the silence becoming something that finally, irrevocably, breaks us.