Nobody's Daughter

Aaliyah

The flat felt too quiet.

Aaliyah leaned against the window frame, staring out at the bustling streets below. The city was alive—voices rising from the plaza, the occasional honk of a car horn, the distant rhythm of street performers tapping drums—but the flat itself was oppressively still. The quiet settled in her chest like a weight, heavy and unrelenting, a constant reminder that danger was always one step behind them.

It had been three days since they’d arrived, and in that time, Cruz had barely said more than a few sentences at a time. She moved like a shadow through the small space, her every action deliberate, efficient, and guarded. Aaliyah had tried to start conversations—light ones, casual ones, anything to crack through Cruz’s icy exterior—but each attempt had been met with clipped responses or the kind of silence that made Aaliyah feel like she was talking to a wall.

Still, she was determined. She didn’t know why it mattered so much, but it did. Cruz had done so much for her, given her a second chance at freedom, and yet Aaliyah felt like she barely knew the woman who had risked everything to help her.

Behind her, she could hear Cruz moving through her daily routine. The faint clicks of the laptop keys as she checked her surveillance feed, the quiet scrape of a knife against a whetstone as she sharpened her blade, the subtle creak of the couch springs as she sat down to clean her sidearm. Every sound was measured, precise, and painfully impersonal.

Aaliyah turned from the window, watching Cruz as she worked. She was sitting at the small table, her dark hair pulled back, her hands moving deftly as she disassembled the weapon piece by piece. Aaliyah hesitated, biting her lip before crossing the room and sitting down across from her.

“Do you ever take a break?” Aaliyah asked, keeping her tone light.

Cruz didn’t look up, her focus entirely on the firearm in her hands. “This is my break.”

Aaliyah raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t count. I mean a real break. You know, relaxing? Doing something fun?”

“Fun’s a luxury,” Cruz replied, her tone flat. “One we can’t afford right now.”

Aaliyah sighed, resting her chin in her hand as she watched Cruz work. “You don’t always have to be on high alert, you know. The world isn’t going to end if you take five minutes to breathe.”

Cruz glanced up briefly, her dark eyes flicking to Aaliyah before returning to her task. “The world might not end, but our safety could. I’m not taking that chance.”

The words were matter-of-fact, but Aaliyah caught the faint edge of tension in Cruz’s voice. She leaned back in her chair, studying the woman in front of her. Cruz carried herself like she was made of steel, unyielding and impenetrable, but Aaliyah had seen the cracks—small, fleeting moments when the weight Cruz carried threatened to pull her under.

“You’re not invincible, you know,” Aaliyah said quietly.

Cruz paused, her hands stilling for a fraction of a second before resuming their work. “Never said I was.”

“Then why do you act like you are?” Aaliyah pressed, her voice soft but insistent. “You can’t do everything alone, Cruz. You don’t have to.”

Cruz set down the disassembled piece of the firearm, her movements deliberate as she leaned back in her chair. Her eyes met Aaliyah’s, and for a moment, Aaliyah thought she might actually say something real, something honest. But then Cruz shook her head, her expression hardening.

--

The next few days followed the same pattern. Cruz kept herself busy with endless tasks—maintaining her gear, checking their surroundings, planning contingencies—and Aaliyah did her best to chip away at the wall Cruz had built around herself. It was frustrating, like trying to hold a conversation with a locked door, but Aaliyah refused to give up.

On the third evening, Aaliyah finally decided to change tactics. She waited until Cruz had finished her nightly routine and sat on the couch, staring at her laptop screen with a furrowed brow. Aaliyah walked over, hesitating for only a moment before sitting down beside her.

“What are you looking at?” Aaliyah asked, peering at the screen.

Cruz didn’t answer immediately, her eyes flicking to Aaliyah before turning back to the laptop. “Surveillance feed. Making sure nothing’s out of place.”

Aaliyah nodded, leaning closer to get a better look. The screen showed a series of black-and-white images—angles of the street below, the building’s entrance, and the surrounding area. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but the sight still made her chest tighten.

“You’re good at this,” Aaliyah said, her voice quiet.

Cruz raised an eyebrow. “Good at what?”

“Keeping people safe,” Aaliyah said. “Planning, watching, making sure nothing goes wrong. It’s… impressive.”

Cruz let out a faint huff of breath, something that might have been a laugh but didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s a job.”

“It’s more than that,” Aaliyah insisted. “You care. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Cruz’s hands stilled on the keyboard, her expression unreadable. For a moment, the tension in the air shifted, and Aaliyah felt like she might have finally broken through. But then Cruz closed the laptop with a quiet snap, standing and moving toward the table where her gear was laid out.

“Get some sleep,” Cruz said over her shoulder. “We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

Aaliyah sighed, watching her retreat. One step forward, two steps back, she thought. But she wouldn’t give up. Cruz had saved her life, given her a chance at freedom. The least Aaliyah could do was remind Cruz that she wasn’t alone—no matter how much she tried to be.

Cruz

The quiet was starting to get to Cruz.

She sat at the small table, staring at her laptop, but the usual focus and clarity she relied on had begun to blur at the edges. The surveillance feeds were empty—no signs of anyone watching the flat, no suspicious movements around the plaza below. Her messages to contacts had gone unanswered, and the few replies she had received were vague at best.

No activity from Aaliyah’s father. No updates on the fiancé. It was all too quiet.

Cruz had learned a long time ago that silence wasn’t safety—it was a threat waiting to happen. The longer things stayed quiet, the more convinced she became that something was brewing, something she wouldn’t see coming until it was too late. She hated not knowing, not moving. Action was simple, clean. Waiting was where the cracks started to show.

She glanced toward the bed, where Aaliyah was sitting by the window, her knees pulled to her chest. The girl had spent most of the last few days looking out at the city, her gaze distant, her fingers fidgeting with whatever was in reach. Restlessness was written all over her. Cruz could see it in the way Aaliyah lingered near her, always asking questions, always pushing for a response. Cruz tried to give as little as possible.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk—no, scratch that, she didn’t. Talking led to connection, and connection led to pain. She had lived that cycle enough times to know better. So she gave Aaliyah what she could: protection, food, a place to hide. That was enough. It had to be.

The truth was, Cruz didn’t have answers to the questions Aaliyah wasn’t asking. Like what they were going to do next. Or how Cruz planned to keep them ahead of whatever storm was brewing. She didn’t know. She was running on instinct and improvisation, relying on old habits and half-formed plans, and the uncertainty gnawed at her.

You’re losing your edge, a voice in her head whispered, sharp and accusing. Figure it out before it’s too late.

She pushed the thought aside, dragging her focus back to the laptop screen. The surveillance feeds showed the same empty streets, the same familiar patterns. Nothing. Cruz clenched her jaw, the tension in her shoulders building as she tapped through the windows. Her contacts had always been reliable before. Why weren’t they coming through now?

“You okay?”

Aaliyah’s voice startled her, and Cruz looked up, her expression carefully neutral. The girl had left her perch by the window and was standing near the table, her arms crossed lightly over her chest. She looked concerned, and Cruz hated the way that look made her feel—like she’d let something slip, like Aaliyah could see through her.

“I’m fine,” Cruz said shortly, turning back to the laptop.

“You don’t look fine,” Aaliyah pressed, stepping closer. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours.”

“It’s work,” Cruz said, her tone clipped. “Making sure we’re safe.”

Safe. The word felt thin, brittle. What did safety even mean anymore? They were holed up in a tiny flat in a city crawling with people, hiding from a man with more resources than most small countries. The best Cruz could do was buy them time, but time was running out.

“Do you ever take a break?” Aaliyah asked, her tone lighter now, almost teasing.

“This is my break,” Cruz replied without looking up.

“That doesn’t count,” Aaliyah said, sitting across from her. “I mean a real break. Relaxing. Doing something fun.”

“Fun,” Cruz repeated flatly, letting the word hang in the air. It felt foreign on her tongue, like something she’d lost the right to a long time ago. “Fun’s a luxury. One we can’t afford right now.”

Her words were sharper than she intended, and she saw Aaliyah flinch slightly. Guilt pricked at Cruz’s chest, but she pushed it down, focusing on the laptop again. She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t have room for this.

“You’re not invincible, you know,” Aaliyah said softly.

Cruz’s hands stilled on the keyboard, her jaw tightening. Invincible? She almost laughed. She’d spent her entire life learning how to survive, how to fight, how to endure. But invincible? No. She was patched together with scars and stubbornness, and every choice she’d made had come with a cost.

“Never said I was,” she muttered.

“Then why do you act like it?” Aaliyah asked, her voice tinged with quiet frustration. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Don’t I? Cruz thought bitterly. She didn’t answer, didn’t even look up. The truth was, doing things alone was the only way she knew how to operate. Letting people in only made things messier. It made things hurt.

--

Cruz rubbed the back of her neck, her muscles tight with tension. She’d dealt with enough powerful men to know they didn’t sit idle. The quiet wasn’t peace—it was the eye of the storm. The longer they stayed in this flat, the more vulnerable they became. But she didn’t have a better option yet, and that gnawed at her like a splinter she couldn’t reach.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft shuffle of footsteps. She didn’t need to look up to know it was Aaliyah. She could feel the girl’s presence even before she stepped closer, an inexplicable pull that made Cruz hyperaware of every breath, every glance, every word spoken in her direction.

“What are you looking at?” Aaliyah asked, leaning over her shoulder.

Cruz froze. Not visibly—at least she hoped not—but the way Aaliyah’s voice slid so close to her ear made her fingers falter for just a moment on the keyboard. Don’t react, she told herself. It’s nothing.

“Surveillance feed,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Checking for anything unusual.”

Aaliyah moved closer, just enough that Cruz could feel the faint warmth of her body leaning over the chair. Cruz stared hard at the screen, willing herself not to look up, not to notice the way Aaliyah’s hair brushed her shoulder, or how her breath ghosted faintly against Cruz’s temple.

“You’re good at this,” Aaliyah said, her tone almost admiring.

Cruz’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. “Good at what?”

“Keeping people safe,” Aaliyah said simply. “Planning, watching, making sure nothing goes wrong. It’s… impressive.”

The words hit Cruz in a way she didn’t expect. People didn’t usually compliment her for being good at watching their backs—it was just assumed. It was her job, her role, the thing she did because no one else would. Hearing Aaliyah say it with such sincerity made her chest tighten uncomfortably.

She risked a glance at Aaliyah then, and it was a mistake. The girl was so close, her green eyes locked on the screen but her expression open, unguarded in a way that made Cruz’s stomach twist. She looked at the surveillance images like they were more than just cold, calculated tools. Like they meant something.

Cruz cleared her throat, dragging her eyes back to the laptop. “It’s just a job,” she said flatly.

“It’s more than that,” Aaliyah replied, her voice softer now. “You care. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Cruz’s hand stilled on the mouse. Care? The word hit a nerve she didn’t know was still raw. Of course, she cared—just not in the way Aaliyah was implying. Caring got you killed, or worse, it got the people you cared about hurt. She’d learned that lesson with Edgar. She wasn’t going to learn it again.

She straightened abruptly, snapping the laptop closed. “Get some sleep,” she said, standing and moving toward her gear. “We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

Aaliyah hesitated, lingering for a moment before nodding. “Goodnight, Cruz.”

“Goodnight,” Cruz replied, not turning around.

She kept her back to Aaliyah until she heard the bed creak softly as the girl climbed in. Only then did she let herself exhale, her shoulders sagging slightly. The faint warmth of Aaliyah’s presence still clung to her, and Cruz shook her head sharply, forcing the feeling away.

Focus, Manuelos, she told herself. She’s your responsibility. That’s all.

But as she returned to her gear, her hands moving with the precision of years of training, the memory of Aaliyah leaning over her shoulder lingered, as persistent and undeniable as a heartbeat.