Nobody's Daughter

Aaliyah

The private jet hummed softly as it cut through the sky, gliding over a sea of endless clouds. The world outside was muted, an expanse of white and gray stretching into the horizon, untouched by the chaos left behind in Greece. Inside the cabin, silence pressed down on Aaliyah like a weighted shroud.

She sat by the window, staring blankly at nothing. The reflection of her own hollow eyes stared back at her from the glass, but she barely recognized herself. Her body felt foreign—hollow, drained, like her skin no longer fit. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t cry. She just existed in the void that had swallowed her whole.

The only thing tethering her to reality was the warmth of Cruz’s hand resting on her thigh. Steady. Constant.

Cruz hadn’t said anything since they boarded. She hadn’t tried to force words from Aaliyah, hadn’t demanded answers or reassurances. She just was. And maybe that was the worst part—because Aaliyah could feel her there, watching, waiting, but she couldn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t bear to see the concern she knew would be waiting for her.

She should say something. Should tell Cruz she was okay. Should tell her that she could handle this. But she couldn’t lie to her. Because she wasn’t okay.

The guilt was suffocating. It coiled around her throat, pressing into her ribs, curling through her gut like something alive, something vicious. It sank its claws into her and held.

Her father was dead. Ehsan was dead. And she had led them there.

She had played her role perfectly—sent the message, let the breadcrumbs lead them into the waiting hands of the CIA. She had looked her father in the eyes, played the part of the desperate, wayward daughter returning home. And she had known. She had known how this would end.

Kyle had promised them it was a capture mission. But she had known better. Deep down, she had always known. And she hadn’t stopped it.

Her breath hitched, her fingers curling against her lap, nails digging into her palm. What does that make me?

She had told herself this was for freedom. That she didn’t want them dead—just gone. That she had only wanted a life where she wasn’t a pawn, wasn’t a possession. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered. Because whether she had wanted it or not, it had happened. And now, the weight of it sat heavy on her chest, pressing into her lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

A part of her had thought it would feel different. That it would feel like relief.

It didn’t.

It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff with no ground beneath her feet.

She hadn’t even flinched when the gunshots rang out. She had known—even then, before she turned, before she saw the confirmation in Cruz’s tight, grim expression. Before she felt the numb, inevitable understanding settle into her bones.

Ehsan and her father weren’t walking away from that hotel room. And now, neither was she. Not really.

She should be free. That was the point of all of this, wasn’t it? She should feel unburdened, untethered. But instead, she felt like she was still running—only now, she wasn’t sure what she was running from. Or who.

The turbulence shifted beneath them, and Cruz’s hand tightened ever so slightly on her thigh. Aaliyah swallowed against the lump in her throat, against the way the warmth of that simple touch threatened to pull her under.

Cruz was here. Cruz had carried her away from that room, had held her when her body finally gave out from the weight of it all. Had whispered to her in soft, steady murmurs as she broke apart in the safety of her arms. Had pressed her lips against her hair and promised her—I’ve got you.

And she had. Every step of the way. But Aaliyah wasn’t sure if anyone could save her from this.

The plane dipped slightly, and her stomach turned with it, but she barely registered the sensation. Her hands curled into the sleeves of Cruz’s borrowed jacket—the same one she had wrapped around Aaliyah’s shoulders before leading her onto the plane. She shouldn’t still be cold. But the chill was inside her, in her veins, in her soul.

She forced her lips to part. Forced her vocal cords to work. “Cruz.”

The name barely made it past her lips, more exhale than sound, but Cruz heard it. Of course she did.

She shifted, her presence an anchor, her gaze unreadable but deep, endless, like the dark tide that threatened to pull Aaliyah under. “I’m here,” she murmured.

Aaliyah nodded, a short, jerky motion. But she didn’t know why she had said Cruz’s name, didn’t know what she needed. Just that she was drowning in this—this grief, this guilt, this all-consuming ache—and Cruz was the only solid thing in the chaos.

The only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

Cruz turned slightly, angling her body toward Aaliyah, slow and careful like she was waiting for permission to move closer. When Aaliyah didn’t pull away, Cruz shifted, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. The touch was light, barely there, but it made something inside Aaliyah crack.

Her eyes burned, her throat tightening, and she wanted to let it out—to let it consume her, to just feel it. But she couldn’t. If she let it in, she wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to stop.

She shut her eyes instead, exhaling shakily. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Cruz’s hand found hers, threading their fingers together. “You’re still you,” she said quietly. “No one can take that from you.”

Aaliyah let out a hollow laugh. “You sure about that?”

Cruz didn’t answer right away. And that silence was enough of an answer.

The pilot’s voice crackled through the speakers, announcing their descent into Milan. Aaliyah barely processed it. She just kept staring out the window, watching as the clouds slowly broke apart to reveal the city below.

Home. Or something like it.

She should have felt something. Instead, she felt nothing at all.

--

Aaliyah barely remembered getting inside their Milan villa.

The drive from the hotel to the airstrip had been a blur. The flight back to Milan was even worse. Every moment felt like it had bled into the next, indistinct, untethered from time. She had been aware of Cruz’s presence—the solid warmth of her body pressed against her side, the low murmur of her voice when necessary. But everything else had been static.

Now, back at the villa, Aaliyah felt weightless. Like if she let go of the fragile thread holding her together, she would dissolve into nothing.

Cruz helped her out of the car, her touch careful but firm, her hand resting just at Aaliyah’s lower back as she guided her inside. Aaliyah let herself be led, let herself be maneuvered through the hallways she knew so well. The villa, once a sanctuary, now loomed around her, the high ceilings suffocating, the warmth of the space hollow and mocking.

Cruz didn’t speak. She just walked with her, steady and patient. The stairs felt endless. Each step should have made her feel closer to something—her bed, safety, comfort—but there was nothing. Just a heavy, crushing weight inside her chest that refused to lift.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Aaliyah wasn’t sure she had the energy to do anything but collapse. She barely registered the feeling of Cruz’s hands on her shoulders as she helped her out of her coat, barely noticed the way Cruz hesitated, hovering, as if unsure how much to do, how much to take care of.

Aaliyah should say something. She should tell Cruz that she was fine. That she didn’t need to be handled like something fragile, something on the verge of breaking. But she wasn’t fine. And she had already broken.

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, as Cruz knelt in front of her, unlacing her boots with quiet efficiency. Aaliyah didn’t move. Didn’t help. Just sat there, her hands limp in her lap, her body nothing but a shell.

Cruz didn’t look at her face. Maybe she knew Aaliyah couldn’t handle it. Instead, she focused on the laces, on sliding off each boot with practiced gentleness before setting them aside. Then, she rose, pulled the blanket over Aaliyah’s lap, and exhaled softly. She lingered.

Aaliyah could feel her hesitating, could hear the words Cruz wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, after a moment, Cruz reached out, fingers ghosting along Aaliyah’s hair before she pressed a lingering kiss to the top of her head. Then she was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her. The silence that followed was deafening.

--

Days passed in a haze. Aaliyah wasn’t sure how long.

The villa, once so full of life, felt like a prison. She barely left the bedroom. Barely moved at all. The curtains remained drawn, blocking out the world outside. The light filtering through was muted, casting long, soft shadows across the walls.

She wasn’t hungry. She barely slept. And when she did, it was restless, filled with half-formed dreams and echoes of the past. Her father’s voice. Ehsan’s sneer. Gunfire.

Aaliyah sat curled on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the faint patterns in the fabric of the sheets. She felt nothing. Just a dull, empty ache.

She should feel relief. Her father had been a monster. Ehsan had been worse. And yet… they had been her family.

She had spent her entire life under their shadow, trying to carve out an identity that was hers alone. She had fought to be more than the daughter of Asmar Amrohi, more than Ehsan Al Rashdi’s bride-to-be. She had hated them for the ways they had tried to control her, for the ways they had shaped her life into something unrecognizable. But she had never wanted this.

She hadn’t pulled the trigger. But she had set the trap. She had been the bait. And now they were dead.

Aaliyah swallowed against the lump in her throat, squeezing her eyes shut. She should be able to breathe easier now. She should be able to look at the future and see something other than fear.

But all she saw was blood.

Cruz never left. She didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions.

But Aaliyah felt her presence in the quiet moments. Cruz would sit beside her on the bed, sometimes saying nothing at all, sometimes murmuring something soft, something grounding. She brought food. Aaliyah rarely touched it. She stroked her hair when she thought Aaliyah was asleep. Aaliyah never was.

She wanted to tell Cruz that she was trying. That she was fighting against the numbness, against the grief that had settled so deep in her chest that it felt impossible to move past. But the words never came.

And so the days blurred together. Her body ached from staying in bed too long. Her thoughts spiraled in circles. She knew Cruz was watching, waiting, searching for an opening—but Aaliyah wasn’t sure she had one to give.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

--

Then, one night, the stillness cracked. She had been sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, when Cruz crouched in front of her. Warm, rough hands cupped her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her gaze away from the void and onto something solid.

Cruz.

Her eyes were dark, steady, searching. A tether in the storm.

“I’m still here,” Cruz murmured, voice soft, but firm. Unshakable.

Aaliyah’s lip trembled. Something inside her twisted so violently she thought she might shatter. She wanted to fall into her, to let Cruz carry the weight of it all, but she didn’t know how.

She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat. And then, she nodded. Just once.

Cruz didn’t push. Didn’t demand more. She just held her. And for the first time since the gunshots rang out, Aaliyah let herself breathe.

Cruz

Cruz had always thought of silence as a comfort—something controlled, intentional. Silence let her think, let her move unseen, let her breathe without interference. But this? This silence was suffocating. It wrapped around Aaliyah like a shroud, dulling the vibrancy that usually radiated from her, snuffing it out inch by inch.

Cruz watched her from across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. Aaliyah sat curled in the armchair by the window, staring out at nothing. Her posture was rigid, her hands limp in her lap, shoulders barely rising with each breath. The morning light filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow over her, but it only made the hollow look in her eyes more pronounced.

Cruz had seen grief before—had carried it in her own chest for years. She understood how it could seep into a person’s bones, how it could take something vital and twist it into something unrecognizable. But knowing it didn’t make it easier to watch.

She didn’t push, didn’t force Aaliyah to speak. She knew better than that. Grief was a slow-moving thing, and it never responded well to force. Aaliyah would come back to her when she was ready. But God, the waiting was unbearable.

Cruz had never been the type to feel helpless, but right now, it felt like all she could do was sit and watch Aaliyah slip further and further away.

She tried to make sure she ate. Every morning, she left a plate of food on the small dining table, something simple but warm—fresh bread, fruit, eggs. At first, Aaliyah barely looked at it. Then, after a few days, Cruz noticed small signs of life: a bite missing from a piece of bread, a sip taken from a glass of juice. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

At night, Cruz made sure she wasn’t alone. Aaliyah didn’t talk, didn’t acknowledge her presence in words, but she never pulled away when Cruz sat beside her. So Cruz stayed. When Aaliyah curled up on the couch, Cruz draped a blanket over her, sitting just close enough that their arms brushed. When Aaliyah disappeared into the bedroom, Cruz followed, wordless but steady, keeping watch from the doorway.

She didn’t leave her side.

And when the nightmares started—when Aaliyah jolted awake with sharp gasps, her fingers clutching at the sheets like she was drowning—Cruz was there.

She never spoke, never tried to fill the silence with meaningless reassurances. Instead, she did what she knew best—she anchored. She pressed a warm palm against Aaliyah’s back, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. When Aaliyah’s breath evened out, Cruz rested her forehead against hers, grounding her with touch, with presence. And when Aaliyah finally, finally relaxed against her, Cruz wrapped her up in her arms, holding her like she could physically keep her from breaking.

She whispered reassurances, even when Aaliyah didn’t respond.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“You did what you had to.”

“You’re not alone.”

Each word felt like dropping stones into a well, the silence swallowing them whole before they could make a sound.

Cruz worried—more than she let on—that Aaliyah would never forgive herself. That she would carry this weight until it crushed her.

Because Cruz knew what that felt like. She knew what it was to bear guilt that didn’t belong to you, to hold onto the ghosts of the past like they were chains around your throat. She had spent years convincing herself that she could survive the burden. But Aaliyah wasn’t meant for this kind of weight.

Cruz wanted—needed—to protect her from it. But how did you save someone from a battle they were fighting inside their own head? She didn’t have an answer.

So instead, she stayed. She brought her food. She touched her gently—her hand on Aaliyah’s knee, her fingers smoothing over her knuckles, her palm resting over the place where Aaliyah’s heartbeat still proved she was here.

She stood watch, steady as ever, hoping that one day, Aaliyah would reach back.

--

Cruz sat at the edge of the café’s outdoor terrace, the crisp Milan air brushing over her skin as she nursed an espresso she had no intention of drinking. The streets bustled around her, full of life—shoppers moving between high-end boutiques, businessmen engaged in hushed conversations over late lunches, tourists gawking at the old-world beauty of the city. It was a world far removed from the one she had just left behind. From the blood staining the ground in Greece.

She wasn’t used to standing still like this, sitting idly in the middle of a city that had no idea what she had done, what she had been a part of. It felt wrong. A hollow, unsettling quiet had settled deep in her chest ever since she carried Aaliyah out of that hotel room, her breath hot against Cruz’s collarbone, her body trembling with grief.

Kyle was late.

She had chosen the meeting spot for a reason—open-air, neutral, somewhere he couldn’t pull any agency tricks. The tables were spaced just far enough apart that they wouldn’t be overheard, but close enough that Kyle wouldn’t try anything stupid.

Cruz’s fingers drummed absently against the table, her knee bouncing beneath it. She hadn’t told Aaliyah she was coming here. Not yet. Not until she knew what the hell had actually happened back in that hotel. Because right now, all Aaliyah knew was that her father and Ehsan were dead. That Kyle had lied. And Cruz had let it happen.

The scrape of a chair across the cobblestone ground pulled her from her thoughts. Kyle slid into the seat across from her, unbothered as ever, a smirk tugging at his lips like he had just stepped out of a deal he already knew he had won.

Cruz didn’t move, didn’t speak, just leveled him with a look that had made plenty of men squirm in the past. But Kyle only chuckled, lifting a hand to signal the waiter before lazily resting his arm over the back of his chair.

“Relax, Manuelos,” he said. “You look like you’re about to put a bullet in me.”

Cruz’s fingers curled into her palm, itching to reach for the gun holstered at her waist.

“Give me a reason,” she said flatly.

Kyle exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I take it you’re upset about the way things played out.”

Cruz scoffed. “Upset? That’s what you’re calling it?” She leaned forward, lowering her voice to something razor-sharp. “You said it was a capture mission.”

Kyle tilted his head like a man who had already worked out every angle before even sitting down. “Technically, we did capture them. Just not while alive.”

Cruz’s jaw clenched. She was going to kill him. She was going to kill him right here in the middle of a damn Milanese café and walk away like nothing had happened.

Kyle sighed, finally sobering. He rested his arms on the table, his smirk fading into something closer to understanding. “Look, I know how this seems—”

“No,” Cruz cut in. “You don’t.” Her voice was low, controlled, but Kyle knew better than to mistake that for calm. “She trusted you. I trusted you.”

Kyle was quiet for a long moment, watching her carefully, before he finally leaned back and spoke. “We had our reasons.”

Cruz exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. She wasn’t in the mood for vague agency bullshit. “Then explain it to me.”

Kyle didn’t hesitate. “Asmar and Ehsan weren’t just businessmen with a bad reputation. They weren’t just corrupt oil barons playing in dirty money. They were war criminals in suits.” His voice was steady, matter-of-fact, like he was talking about the weather. “Their company was a front for laundering millions into terrorist networks across the Middle East and North Africa. Not just money—arms shipments, intelligence, personnel. They weren’t just complicit in funding terrorism. They were orchestrating it.”

Cruz’s stomach turned, but she kept her expression unreadable.

“They’ve had a hand in everything,” Kyle continued. “Destabilizing governments, funding attacks on civilians. A lot of people are dead because of them. People like you and me have spent our entire careers cleaning up the mess they left behind. And with them gone?” He shrugged. “It ends.”

Cruz inhaled slowly, letting his words settle, feeling them weave into everything she already knew but hadn’t wanted to face.

She had suspected, of course. No one at that level of power was clean. No one walked away from an empire like that without blood on their hands. But Aaliyah… Aaliyah hadn’t seen it that way. To her, this wasn’t about geopolitics or black ops justifications. It wasn’t about the greater good. It was about loss. It was about blood.

Cruz swallowed against the ache in her chest, against the way she could still hear the sound of Aaliyah’s choked sobs the moment she realized what had happened. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t fought. She had just… broken.

Kyle studied her, like he was gauging how much of this was sinking in. “I know you want to be angry,” he said. “And hell, maybe you should be. But you’re a soldier, Manuelos. You know the play. We did what needed to be done.”

Cruz exhaled, rolling her shoulders back. “You didn’t have to lie.”

Kyle arched a brow. “Didn’t I?” He let the question hang between them. “If I had told you the truth, would you have gone through with it?”

Cruz didn’t answer.

Kyle leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. “Look, I don’t expect Aaliyah to be okay with this. That’s her father, her ex-fiancé. But I need you to understand something.” His eyes locked onto hers. “With them dead, she is truly free. No more hit squads. No more people looking for her. The forces tracking you two? They’ve turned inward, trying to fill the power vacuum. This? It’s over.”

Cruz sat there, the weight of his words pressing into her ribs like a slow, heavy suffocation.

It was over.

They had spent so long running, fighting, clawing for some semblance of freedom. And now they had it. Aaliyah was free. But was the cost worth it?

Kyle sighed, sitting back. “I’ll give you time. Let her grieve, let her be angry, do whatever you need to do. But don’t let this eat you up, Cruz. You did what was necessary.”

Cruz’s jaw ticked, her hands flexing against the table. Necessary.

She knew what that word meant in their world. She had spent years being conditioned to believe in necessary evils, in hard calls, in things she wasn’t meant to question. She knew how to justify it. How to compartmentalize it.

But Aaliyah wasn’t a mission. Aaliyah wasn’t someone she could debrief and move on from.

Cruz let out a slow breath, pushing her chair back. “We’re done here.”

Kyle didn’t try to stop her. As she walked away, her fists clenched at her sides, one thought ran through her mind over and over again. It’s over. But it sure as hell didn’t feel like it.

--

The villa was dark when Cruz stepped inside, the only light spilling in from the dim glow of the street lamps outside. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, the sound seeming to echo louder than it should in the suffocating stillness.

Aaliyah hadn’t moved. She was in the exact spot Cruz had left her, curled up on the couch, knees drawn to her chest. The only thing different was the half-empty glass of wine on the table, the deep red liquid untouched since she had likely poured it hours ago.

Cruz took a slow breath, shrugging off her jacket and setting the bag with their burner phones and IDs on the entryway table. Her every movement was careful, measured, like she was trying not to shatter something fragile. And in a way, she was.

She had seen Aaliyah break days ago. Had watched her grief consume her in waves that crashed violently before settling into something cold and sharp. But this was different.

This wasn’t rage or devastation. This was silence. A still, vast emptiness that felt deeper than anything Cruz had ever seen in her before.

She moved toward the couch, lowering herself onto the cushion beside Aaliyah with deliberate slowness, careful not to startle her. The distance between them was barely a breath, but it felt like miles.

Cruz hesitated, then reached for Aaliyah’s hand. Her fingers were cold, unmoving in Cruz’s grasp. She squeezed gently, trying to will some warmth into them, into her, into the space between them.

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, finally, Aaliyah exhaled, a slow, hollow sound. “You’re back.”

Cruz nodded, but Aaliyah still wasn’t looking at her. Her gaze was fixed on something distant, something Cruz couldn’t see.

She swallowed, voice soft but certain. “You’re free.”

Aaliyah finally turned then, green eyes meeting hers. But they were unreadable—vacant in a way that made something deep inside Cruz ache. A beat of silence passed. Then, a whisper. “At what cost?”

Cruz didn’t have an answer.

She wished she did. She wished she could give Aaliyah some kind of certainty, some kind of comfort to hold onto. But the truth was, she didn’t know. She didn’t know if this would ever stop hurting, if the weight of what they had done—what Aaliyah had set in motion—would ever truly lift.

So instead, she just held her hand tighter. No words. No reassurances. Just presence. Just her. Aaliyah didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean into her, either. But that was okay. Cruz wasn’t expecting miracles.

She would wait. She would be here, in whatever way Aaliyah needed her to be.

Minutes passed in silence, stretching long and heavy between them. The sounds of Milan outside the villa drifted in—a distant motorcycle engine, laughter from a couple passing by, life continuing on as if nothing had happened. As if the world hadn’t shifted beneath them.

Cruz glanced at Aaliyah again. The dim light caught the delicate lines of her face, the soft waves of her dark hair falling over her shoulders. But it was her expression that made Cruz’s chest tighten—because she wasn’t crying. She wasn’t raging. She was just lost.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted her arm and wrapped it around Aaliyah’s shoulders, pulling her close. For a moment, Aaliyah didn’t react. Then, finally she leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough.

Cruz exhaled, relief mingling with something quieter, something raw. She pressed a kiss to the top of Aaliyah’s head, murmuring against her hair. “No matter what, I’ve got you.”

Aaliyah didn’t respond, but she didn’t pull away.

And when Cruz felt the faintest tremor of fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, holding on just a little tighter—she knew. Aaliyah wasn’t gone. Not yet. And as long as Cruz was here, she never would be.

--

The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. Cruz sat in the chair beside the bed, elbows braced on her knees, hands clasped loosely between them. The steady sound of Aaliyah’s breathing was the only thing anchoring her in this moment, keeping her from spiraling into the past—or worse, the future.

Aaliyah was curled beneath the blankets, her body half-turned away from Cruz, lost in a sleep that was neither restful nor peaceful. Even unconscious, she seemed weighed down, her features pulled into something troubled, almost haunted. It killed Cruz to see her like this. To see the woman who had once been all fire and sharp wit reduced to someone barely holding herself together.

Cruz wasn’t naive. She knew grief wasn’t a wound that healed clean. It festered. It reopened. It lingered in the marrow of a person’s bones, making them feel like they would never be whole again. And Aaliyah’s grief—her guilt—ran deeper than most.

Cruz exhaled, running a hand over her face. She had spent years being the one people turned to in the middle of chaos. The one who took the hits and kept moving, the one who didn’t break, didn’t hesitate. But this—this kind of fight—was different. This was a battle she couldn’t win with a gun or a strategy. There was no clean way through this, no mission parameters she could follow to make things easier.

Cruz leaned back in the chair, tilting her head against the wall as she stared at the ceiling. She didn’t pray. She never had. But if she did, she thought she’d pray for Aaliyah to find her way back to herself. To see the world in color again. To not carry the weight of her past alone.

Because no matter how many times Aaliyah tried to bury herself beneath her guilt, Cruz wasn’t going anywhere.

She glanced over at her, studying the faint rise and fall of her breathing. Aaliyah had always been beautiful—undeniably so—but now, she looked fragile in a way Cruz hated.

She wanted to take the pain from her. Wanted to kiss the grief from her lips, trace over every broken part until it was whole again. But she couldn’t. This wasn’t something Cruz could fight for her. This was Aaliyah’s battle, and all Cruz could do was stand beside her and hope she didn’t drown in it.

The silence stretched between them, heavy, almost suffocating. Then, in the quiet, Aaliyah stirred.

Cruz’s eyes snapped to her immediately, watching as she shifted under the blankets, her body curling inward before she went still again. For a moment, Cruz thought she had imagined it—that Aaliyah had simply moved in her sleep.

But then, barely above a whisper, Aaliyah spoke. “I’ll come back to you,” she murmured, the words slurred with exhaustion, with something deeper than sleep. “Just… don’t give up on me.”

Cruz’s chest tightened. She barely breathed, afraid that if she moved, if she even acknowledged what had just been said, it would disappear. That Aaliyah would sink back into silence, into the void of her grief.

Instead, Cruz swallowed, forcing the lump in her throat down as she leaned forward. Carefully, she reached for Aaliyah’s hand beneath the blankets, threading her fingers through hers.

Never.

She didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t want to risk waking her. But she knew Aaliyah would feel it in the way she squeezed her hand, in the way she stayed there, solid and unmoving.

Cruz didn’t have all the answers. She didn’t know how long it would take for Aaliyah to find her way back. But she knew one thing:

She wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever. And when Aaliyah finally opened her eyes and reached for her, Cruz would be there. Waiting.