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"Fine, but only because I can't interrogate people on an empty stomach." I approached the table. Each step felt like a surrender as my eyes trailed after Kylo as he sauntered across the room, the muscles of his back shifting beneath his skin—a living canvas that beckoned to me with every breath he took.
"Priorities," And there they were again, those damn dimples.
For a moment, I allowed myself the luxury of this domestic charade, and pretended the storm outside was just rain and not the looming shadow of betrayal and deception. But even then, I knew better. Nothing was ever just rain in this city.
"Your culinary skills are the only reason I haven't kicked you out yet."
"Good to know I have a use," Kylo said, eyebrows dancing mischievously.
"Several," I mumbled under my breath, more to myself than him.
"Did you say something?"
"Nothing," I lied. It was too early, and my brain-to-mouth filter was still rebooting.
With a knowing smirk, he turned back to the stove, flipping a pancake with unnecessary flair. I rolled my eyes but couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at my lips. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.
Shifting my attention, I reached for the newspaper clipping that lay folded in my pocket—the harsh black and white print a stark contrast to the false cheeriness of the morning. My mother's youthful face stared back at me from the page, frozen in time, her smile more eerie than cheerful. It was the same damned article I'd read a thousand times, the same cold words.
I traced the outline of her face, the paper already worn thin from my touch. It was a ritual, a silent conversation between me and her ghost. Each time I hoped for a different ending, for the truth to magically rewrite itself in the ink.
"Hey," Kylo voice pulled me back from the brink of memory's abyss. "You okay?"
"Always," I lied again and tucked the clipping away from view. My mother's death was the anchor that kept me in this city, the whisper of betrayal that echoed down every alleyway, soaked into the fucking bricks. And rain or not, I would pull that truth from the shadows—no matter what it took.
"Oswin Yorke," I started, the name rolling off my tongue with a mix of curiosity and distaste. "He's the key to all this—the time traveler who might just know what happened to her." I nodded toward the folded newspaper tucked away, knowing he understood.
Kylo furrowed his brow, the morning light casting shadows on his face. "Time traveler? Sounds like a bad sci-fi flick, Ave."
"Trust me, it's weirder than fiction." I ran a hand through my hair and felt the weight of every sleepless night. "My guess is Yorke's been popping in and out of timelines like a tourist. If anyone knows how my mom died, why she died—it's him."
"Okay, let's say I buy this time travel crap," Kylo said, skepticism laced with an undercurrent of support. "How do we find this guy?"
"Find him?" I pushed back from the table with a chair that cried out in protest. "I've got more strings to pull than a goddamn marionette, but finding him isn't the problem. It's making sure he doesn't slip through our fingers again."
A muscle twitched in Kylo's jaw, a sign he was taking this as seriously as I needed him to. "We'll figure it out, Averill. Whatever it takes, right?"
"Damn straight," I replied, pacing the cramped space of our motel room, feeling caged by more than just the peeling wallpaper and musty stench. "I want justice for her, Kylo. Closure. And if that means chasing after some time-hopping enigma, then so be it."
"Then we're chasing," he said simply, his determination settling over me like a promise.
"Good," I muttered, pausing by the window where rain streaked down the glass like the tears I refused to shed. "Because I'm not letting this go—not when we're this close."
A fire kindled in my chest, one that burned away the remnants of a sleepless night and fueled the rage that had become my constant companion. It was the same fire that sparked whenever I thought of my mother, lying cold and alone while lies wrapped around her legacy like a weed.
"Hey," Kylo pulled me back from the edge of my own thoughts, his voice firm but gentle. "We'll get him, Averill. And your mom's story won't just be a cold case or a shitty headline. We'll make it right."
"Make it right," I echoed, the words tasting like a vow on my tongue. I met Kylo's gaze, seeing the reflection of my own stubborn defiance staring back at me. For the first time, I let myself lean into the trust that I'd built brick by painstaking brick with Kylo.
"Thanks," My gratitude was raw and unfiltered. "For staying. For believing in this—believing in me."
"Always," he responded with a half-smile that chipped away at the walls I'd erected around myself.
In the wake of our conversation, the kitchenette felt less like a makeshift prison and more like a war room. With Kylo at my side, Oswin Yorke's days of running were numbered.
"Catching someone who can slip through time? It's like trying to handcuff smoke."
"Then we better be the goddamn wind," Kylo countered, his confidence as infectious as a yawn after midnight.
