Ava couldn't get comfortable.
She shifted again—blanket bunched beneath her shoulder, back pressed to the cold wall, muscles tight from days of constant movement. Everything felt too quiet. Too warm. Too close.
Lucas lay across the room, sprawled sideways on the cot like he'd been poured there, breathing even and slow.
But Ava knew him.
And this? This was not sleep.
He hadn't twitched once. No real movement, no subconscious shifts. His body was relaxed, but not sunk. His fingers curled just enough for control, not comfort.
Fake sleeping.
He was alert. Resting his body while his mind spun like a locked vault with a broken hinge.
He'd nap in the car tomorrow—that was his usual game. Let Ava take a shift while he "recharged." Then wake like nothing happened, already five steps ahead.
