There's something about seeing Elijah again that makes me feel like a little girl. Like time folds in on itself and suddenly I'm eight years old, running down the stairs to jump on his back while he pretends I'm not too heavy. He still gives the same kind of hugs—firm, grounding, warm in a way that nothing else ever is.
'I missed you, Squirt,' he says into my hair, his voice muffled, arms tight around my shoulders.
'I told you to stop calling me that.'
'You love it.'
I do. But I roll my eyes anyway.
He's been gone for three weeks, but it feels like longer. He looks tired. A little tanner, a little sharper around the eyes. There's a heaviness in the way he moves, like whatever happened overseas is still clinging to him. But he smiles when he sees me, and for a moment, everything feels almost normal.
We sit in the kitchen while he eats reheated pasta and tells me about Europe—cold courtrooms, long nights, demanding clients. I half-listen, nodding in all the right places, but my mind drifts in and out.
Because I know what's coming.
Sooner or later, he's going to mention him.
And I'm not ready for that.
'I thought Kairo would be back with you,' I say casually, stirring my juice with the straw just to keep my hands busy.
Elijah looks up, mouth full.
'He stayed behind to finish a few things. Told him to take a break before diving back in with me.'
My stomach dips.
'Oh,' I say, keeping my tone even. 'Right.'
He watches me a second longer than necessary.
'You two haven't been annoying each other while I was gone, have you?'
I force a laugh. 'We barely spoke.'
Which isn't a lie. Not anymore.
'Good,' he says, reaching for the bread. 'You know how I feel about you getting mixed up with guys like him.'
I look down at my plate.
Guys like him.
What does that even mean? Men with control? Men with money? Men who never ask permission but somehow make you feel like you want to follow anyway?
Or maybe it just means men Elijah knows too well.
'He's not that bad,' I say before I can stop myself.
Elijah raises a brow.
'I mean… he's always been good to you.'
'He's not a bad guy, Lyra. But he's not for you.'
'And how would you know who's for me?'
He pauses.
'I know the kind of look a man like that gives a girl when he wants something.'
The words slice through me before I can catch my breath.
Does he know?
Did he see it?
My face stays neutral. I've practiced this kind of expression all my life—calm, detached, unbothered. But my insides are burning.
'Well,' I say quietly, 'good thing he doesn't want anything, right?'
Elijah doesn't reply.
He just finishes his food, wipes his mouth, and leans back with a sigh.
'Just… be careful, Lyra. You're too good to be somebody's curiosity.'
My chest aches, but I nod.
Because I am being careful. That's the problem.