Noah turned to face me, wiping his chin but missing most of the blood. He took in my expression quietly. I couldn't speak, I could barely even breathe properly. I heaved in big gulps of air and tried to exhale slowly, carefully, to slow my heart rate, like my therapist had taught me in the months following my father's death.

He took a tentative step forward, but I raised my hand to stop him. It wasn't that I didn't want him close - I just had to gain control over my breath and my thoughts first. Eventually, I let him embrace me and the warmth of his touch helped my muscles to relax.

"Can you take me home?" I said, muffled, into his chest.

He cradled my head in his hand. "Yes. Of course."

"Okay." I breathed in deeply, inhaling his scent and anchoring myself to it, anchoring my breathing to the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. After what felt like an eternity of leaning into him, I let him release me and took the tiniest step back. His hand slid from my cheek down my arm, to my hand, where his fingers intertwined with mine and I allowed him to pull me along.

We walked home in silence, hands holding on tight to each other the whole way. I set one foot in front of the other, and again and again mechanically until we were at my front door.

I unlocked it, only to stare at the stairs in front of me. How the hell was I supposed to climb all the way to the third floor?

Sensing my hesitation, Noah wrapped his arm around my waist. "Come, I'll help you," he said, "One step at a time."

I climbed the steps slowly with his hand guiding me and preventing me from falling, and exhaled in relief when I was on my landing. I opened the door lock after fumbling with the keys for a few seconds. Noah held me all the way to the couch. My knees buckled with exhaustion just briefly before he let me drop myself slowly onto the cushions.

It was as if only now that I sat and didn't physically have to do anything, that I could think about what had happened out there. I realized I had just witnessed sides of Noah that I'd never seen before - two extremes, one of frenzy and the other of a patient understanding that he hadn't had the chance to display before, because I'd never shown him this anxiety.

I'd never seen him this emotional, this… passionate. He was always cool and collected, even a little bit aloof sometimes. It was as if he'd been a different person back there in the street, and now that we were sitting safe on my couch, I saw those two sides of him colliding. In his eyes I saw a fire, a vigor, and his hands still trembled ever so subtly, but the corners of his mouth went up in a tender smile and he pulled me closer to kiss my forehead.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," he mumbled softly against my skin.

I looked up at his face when he pulled back. "What… what was that, Noah?"

He didn't meet my gaze. "I needed to stop him. He was going to hurt you." His voice was, impossibly, sharp with feeling and dull with detachment all at the same time.

"So you…" I didn't finish that sentence. I was going to ask him why he'd beat that guy up as far as he had, but the truth was that I was grateful for it, and that I didn't want to scold Noah for coming to my aid. "How are you even here?" I asked instead.

"What do you mean?" He looked at me now.

"Aren't you supposed to be away for work? How - how did you know I was here?"

He waited, looking at me, apparently contemplating those questions. "I got back early," he said eventually.

I swallowed. That wasn't what I'd asked, but I knew Noah well enough by now to realize that when he didn't answer a question, it was almost always intentional. I didn't press on, and changed the subject. "I need to go to bed."

"Okay," he nodded, "Do you want me to stay or do you want to be alone tonight?"

I was glad that he was considerate enough to ask, but I really, really wanted him to stay. I was certain that I would have nightmares again tonight, and I wanted to have him by my side when I would wake up in panic. "Stay. Please."

With my hand shielding my eyes from the bright sunlight I peered out at the ocean. I was standing at the top of a hill with gray rocks jutting out beneath me into the waves that beat into the shore. I'd never been to this area before and I was amazed - everywhere I looked was something of beauty. Straight ahead, the deep blue ocean as far as I could see. To my right, the path I'd walked so far meandering between alternating scenes of forests and vistas onto the sea, and to my left, a field of blue daisies that I couldn't wait to see up close. I sighed contentedly and turned away from the sea to the path, and continued walking.

The radiant sunlight warming my face somehow stayed on me even when I walked underneath the wide-grown canopy of a large birch tree. I blinked and it only got brighter - I blinked again, and found myself in my bed, the curtains thrown open and sunlight streaming in.

"Good morning." Noah rubbed a towel over his wet hair and laughed. "I wasn't sure if you were going to wake up at all."

I looked around, bewildered, and grabbed my phone. Its battery was empty. "What time is it?"

"It's eleven thirty."

"What?" My mom would be here in half an hour. "Noah, you've got to - sorry, but you've got to go."

He frowned. "Why? Is this because of last night?"

Last night. Right. My dream had been so serene and I'd awoken so peacefully that I'd momentarily forgotten about last night. I wasn't ready to think about that just yet. "No, it's my mom - she's coming over, she'll be here any minute."

"Oh, I'd love to meet Olivia." He pulled on his trunks.

"No, I don't…" I got out from under the covers. "Not today. Okay?"

He nodded. All that anger from last night had disappeared and he was back to being his confident, laid-back self. "Okay. Some other time. I'll get going, then." He quickly dressed and kissed me on my cheek. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." Right as he turned to leave the room, I laid my hand on his face, pulling him back, and kissed him softly on his lips. "Thank you for staying with me."

"I could've never left you alone, Emma. Have fun with your mom."

Sunday night. Noah and I had both danced around the subject of Friday night the whole time we were together - me, because I didn't know how to start talking about it and I barely even knew how to feel yet, and I guessed that Noah didn't know what to say either as long as I wasn't talking. I realized I should probably disapprove of what he'd done, of the lengths he'd gone to, but I still didn't. I hated Daniel Beck with a fervor.

Noah had just gotten up from the couch to take a phone call, and as he walked into the kitchen he gestured to indicate it would probably be a long talk. That reminded me… just two days ago, all I had been able to think of was the painting, the shirt with blood and gold stains, and the passports. The passports. I held my breath and listened carefully - Noah was still engaged in an intense discussion. This was my chance.

I didn't try to conceal the sound of my footsteps on the wooden stairs - if he did happen to hear, he would definitely think I was up to something. But the door to the study creaked softly, and I didn't dare close it behind me and make more noise.

Apparently, Noah hadn't been in here. The desk drawer was still open that half inch that I'd carefully closed it to. I hurried over and opened it.

The first passport was as normal as could be. Name: Noah Chevalier, date of birth: March 1st, 1988. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

I fished the next one out, one that looked barely older. This one was Italian. Adriano Carrara. March 1st, 1981. Huh. Still, that didn't seem too strange if for his spy job he had to use various identities.

The next one was old and yellowed, with a coffee stain on it, but I couldn't read it - everything was in what looked to be Russian. I laid it aside.

Norwegian, Erik Gunvaldsson, March 1st, 1935. French, Romain Lesauvage, 1968. American, Noah Chevalier again, 1953. Adriano Carrara again, 1919. All of them had Noah's photo in various sepia tones. But the next one… the next one was especially strange. It was blue, it almost fell apart - British, James Slaughter, March 1st, 1908. Issued in 1937. Noah's face, his hair slicked back, stared up at me from the page.

What. The. Hell. Why did Noah have an eighty-year-old passport? Why did he have any of these passports with dates of birth that were impossible? There was no reason for him to have them for any secret agent work. But then… I'd already been less and less convinced of that, what with the shirt and the painting. Something else was going on, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what. I took out the passports again and looked at the dates to check if I'd read them correctly. I had.

A sudden creak of the door made me look up and almost jump in surprise. Noah was there, and judging from the way he was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and smiling at me with an amused look in his eyes, he had been standing there for quite a while already.

"Having fun?" It didn't sound accusatory, just… pleased, oddly enough.

I stepped away from the open drawer. "Noah, oh my god, I'm so sorry - I shouldn't have -"

"No, it's fine." He moved to stand next to me and thumbed nostalgically through a couple of passports before setting them down and looking at me. "I wanted you to find these."

"I - wait, you wanted me to?" I frowned.

"Yeah. The painting, too." He vaguely gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the filing cabinet. "There's another one, actually."

I broke my stare at him to go over to the filing cabinet. Behind that painting of the Italian couple was another, smaller one, depicting a bunch of men in old-fashioned military uniforms and those strange hats I associated with Napoleon Bonaparte.

"Look, right there." Noah was kneeling next to me and pointing at one of the faces. I looked from the painting to him and back. They were almost identical, save for the difference in haircut and facial hair.

I straightened up slowly; so did he. "What's going on, Noah?"

He only smiled at me expectantly. It was infuriating.

"Come on, Noah, tell me. I need to know." I went back to the desk and picked up the ancient passports. "Why do you have these? What… why are they so old? What do you do with them?"

"The usual. Open bank accounts, buy houses..." he shrugged.

"With a passport that says you were born in 1908?"

He laughed. "No, not with that one anymore. Just these." He picked up the first two I had found.

Not anymore? So he'd actually used those before? "What the hell are the older ones for?"

"I used those names. I've sort of been recycling the same names for ages now... I've grown somewhat fond of them."

He was saying all of this, explaining it, as if any of it or even all of it made total sense. As if I knew exactly what was going on. But I still didn't have the slightest clue.

"So... you're saying... all those dates of birth on the passports... You actually lived then? You're like a hundred years old? Am I living the first book of Twilight?" My eyes narrowed. "Do you sparkle in the sunlight?"

He laughed. "Not exactly. And I'm kind of offended you'd compare me to that drivel."

"What, then?"

"When you say a hundred... multiply that by five hundred. Then you're pretty close."

Fifty thousand years. "Isn't that… basically... all of history?"

I couldn't think straight. None of this could be true. There had to be some rational explanation - I was in some sort of prank TV show. Or this was an elaborate manipulation to make me think I was going insane. Or maybe Noah was just straight-up crazy.

He nodded. "Human history, yes. Further back than history, actually, you guys didn't think to record it for a long time." Straight-up crazy, then. He was so serious about this - he was completely convinced of what he was telling me.

I decided to play along, or so I told myself. I didn't want to admit to myself that I was intrigued and that for some reason I was still open to the outrageous possibility that this was somehow true. "Us... guys? You're not human?"

"What about my age makes you think I would be?" He smiled broadly, but he started to look nervous. "Come on, Emma, I know you're nearly there…"

I racked my brain, but my mind was blank. He was saying he wasn't human. He was saying he was as old as humanity itself. There was the painting - which, in that context, would actually make sense. So would the passports. But the shirt… the shirt with the blood splatters and the gold stains. I still didn't understand that clue, but I was sure it had something to do with whatever this was. Whatever he was.

"So your real name isn't Noah?"

"No." He sat down on his desk. It creaked lightly under his weight.

I paced back and forth, looking from the paintings to the passport to his face, but he offered no further answer. "What is it, then? Why can't you just tell me?" I mentally scolded myself for asking that question, for being so curious about this. There was no way I could believe anything he was saying - I shouldn't believe him.

He shook his head. With his hands resting behind him on the desk and his legs crossed at the ankles, he looked casual and relaxed, but I saw uneasiness in his face and his fingers were twitching, as if he wanted to fold them into his palms. "I need you to get there by yourself."

"But I don't know!" I threw my hands up in frustration. "How do you expect me to see all this and hear all this and then think logically? The least bizarre bit is that you've been lying to me all this time about your identity, and that's saying something!"

"I know, and I'm sorry about that," he said, biting his lower lip as we looked each other in the eyes when I finally stood still in front of him. "But that will make sense once you -"

"Once I what? Figure out that you're completely nuts?" I looked away. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't know a lot about psychology, but it was probably best to play along with whatever stories he was telling me.

"Okay." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "I'll tell you."

"Great."

As he stood up from the desk, he shot me a cautious look. "But you might want to sit down for this."

"I'm not sitting down." I crossed my arms. Even though I was much too short to look him straight in the eye anyway, I would not lower myself for him to tower over me.

"Emma…" he started slowly, much too slowly for my liking.

"Go on! Tell me!"

He looked at the ground, then back at me. "I really, really wanted you to figure this out for yourself."

"Yeah, so you keep saying, but I didn't, so spill it."

"I'm a god."