Lilly woke up to the scent of jasmine and lavender.
Her cheek throbbed in rhythm with her pulse, the sterile sting of fresh stitches reminding her that yes, she was still alive. The pain was sharp, and clean like a controlled fire. It grounded her. But what didn't ground her?
The sight of Sam, curled up in the armchair beside her bed like she belonged there.
Like a kitten sleeping. Hoodie stolen from someone rich. Laptop open and glowing on her lap. One slipper half on. Hair in a messy bun that should've been illegal for its lethality.
And watching her. Eyes sharp. Like she'd never stopped.
Lilly groaned softly. "You're still here?"
Sam's smirk cracked slow, lazy, and criminally smug. "You took a bullet for me. Least I can do is play hero with attitude problems."
Lilly tried to sit up, winced.
Immediately, Sam was on her feet, pressing a hand gently to her shoulder. "Hey, don't be an idiot. You bled on the hydrangeas. You're not winning any medals for being a so-called hero."
"I'm not a hero. I'm irritated."
"Oh good," Sam chirped. "You're healing."
Lilly gave her a look that could curdle steel, but Sam just grinned and moved to the side table, grabbing a glass of water and two small pills. "Painkillers. Take them. Or I'll make you do push-ups later."
Lilly stared at her.
Sam stared right back.
After a second, Lilly took the pills. "I hate you a little."
"Only a little?" Sam whispered, her voice a notch too soft.
The silence that followed was anything but.
They moved into the sitting room after Lilly proved she could walk without collapsing—though Sam still hovered close enough to be considered a satellite. Close enough that their shoulders brushed every time Lilly shifted.
"Why are you really still here?" Lilly asked finally, eyes flicking to her.
Sam blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you should be in some panic room. Or halfway to an island. You shouldn't be—" she gestured around the plush guest wing—"here. With me."
Sam was quiet for a second. Then: "Because I've already spent too much of my life being protected by people who don't see me. You do."
Lilly's breath caught.
Sam turned to her then, eyes stormy, no smirk to hide behind. "You don't flinch when I ask questions. You don't agitate me. You don't lie well. I mean, you do, but not to me. Not anymore."
"I never meant to lie," Lilly said, voice low. "I was assigned. It wasn't supposed to get—"She broke off, jaw clenched.
"Messy?" Sam offered, voice soft.
Lilly nodded once.
Sam shifted closer. Close enough that Lilly could smell her perfume again—something light, green, and reckless. Her fingers reached out—and this time, she didn't stop.
They grazed the edge of Lilly's bandaged cheek. Gentle. Dangerous.
"I meant what I said," Sam whispered. "You're not the only one pretending."
Lilly's heart kicked.
"You think you're the only ghost in the room?" Sam said. "I've been haunted since I was twelve. Since I heard my mother scream and nobody came. I've had to be sweet, sharp, silent. Keep smiling. Keep surviving."
She exhaled, like confessing burned something inside her. "But I'm tired of surviving alone."
Lilly looked at her. Really looked.
And then she did the one thing she never did.
She reached up... and touched Sam's hand.
"Then stay," Lilly said. "But only if you're ready to bleed, too."
Sam's fingers laced with hers.
"I think I already am."
Outside, the shadows lengthened. The assassin who missed still breathed. And somewhere in the dark, a message was being sent.
They're getting too close. Separate them. Or kill them both.