The BBQ joint on Peachtree smelled like hickory and second chances. Lena Harper leaned across the sticky table, her braids brushing the edge of her sweet tea glass, and grinned at Marcus Tate like he’d just hung the moon. He had that way about him—big shoulders, bigger laugh, and eyes that could talk you into anything. Tonight, they were celebrating one year married, a milestone neither of them had figured they’d hit back when they were just two kids sneaking kisses behind the bleachers at Carver High.

“Tell me again,” she said, popping a fry into her mouth. “How you knew I was the one?”

Marcus leaned back, his faded Falcons cap tilted just so. “Easy. You didn’t flinch when I told you about juvie. Most girls would’ve run.”

“Most girls don’t know a good man when they see one,” she shot back, and he chuckled, that low rumble she’d fallen for first.

The air was thick with summer heat, even at nine o’clock, and the jukebox crooned some old Al Green tune that made the whole place feel like a memory. They’d ordered the usual—ribs for him, pulled pork for her, coleslaw to share—and split a slice of pecan pie because Marcus swore it was better than his mama’s, though he’d never say that out loud. Lena watched him lick sauce off his thumb and thought, This is it. This is ours.

“You still wanna buy that house?” he asked, serious now. “The one with the porch?”

“Only if you build me that swing you promised,” she teased. “I see us old and gray, rocking out there, yelling at kids to get off our lawn.”

“Deal.” He reached for her hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around hers. “No matter what, Lena, I’ll always come back to you.”

She believed him. She always did.

The night stretched on, lazy and sweet, until his phone buzzed on the table. Marcus glanced at it, his jaw tightening just enough for her to notice. “Darius,” he muttered, silencing it. “Probably drunk again.”

“Tell him to leave you alone for once,” Lena said, but there was an edge to her voice. Darius was Marcus’s shadow—older, louder, always pulling him into something. She didn’t trust him, never had.

“He’s family,” Marcus said, like that settled it. The phone buzzed again, and this time he sighed and answered. “Yeah, D, what’s up?”

Lena couldn’t hear the words, just the low hum of Darius’s voice, sharp and fast. Marcus’s face shifted—eyes narrowing, mouth going tight—and when he hung up, he wouldn’t look at her.

“Everything okay?” she asked, her stomach twisting.

“Yeah,” he said, too quick. “Just some mess at the shop. I’ll handle it tomorrow.”

She nodded, wanting to believe him, but the air felt different now, heavier. The jukebox clicked to a new song, and the waitress dropped their check. Lena squeezed his hand, willing the night to stay good. She didn’t know yet that it was the last one they’d get.

The waitress, a wiry woman with a gray streak in her bun and a name tag that said “Rita,” slid the check between them with a wink. “Y’all take your time, now. Ain’t nobody rushing you out.” Lena smiled back, grateful for the small grace of a slow night. The place was half-empty, just a few stragglers nursing beers and a couple in the corner whispering over a shared plate of wings. It felt like the world was giving them room to breathe, a rare gift after the hustle of the past year—Marcus picking up extra shifts at the garage, Lena freelancing late into the night to scrape together a down payment. They’d earned this, she thought. Every sticky table, every shared laugh.

Marcus tapped the check with his finger, pretending to study it. “You think Rita’s gonna let us slide if I tell her it’s our anniversary?”

“Only if you flash that smile of yours,” Lena said, nudging his knee under the table. “Works on everybody else.”

“Not everybody.” He grinned, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something quick and shadowed. She almost asked about it, but then he was up, tossing a crumpled twenty on the table and pulling her to her feet. “C’mon. Let’s walk it off.”

Outside, the Atlanta night pressed against them, humid and alive. Peachtree Street hummed with distant traffic, the occasional honk cutting through the cicadas’ drone. They fell into step, her arm hooked through his, her sneakers scuffing the cracked sidewalk. The neon sign of the BBQ joint buzzed behind them, casting a red glow that caught in Marcus’s cap and made him look younger, softer, like the boy she’d met at sixteen with grease on his hands and dreams too big for his pockets.

“Remember that first date?” she asked, leaning into him. “You took me to that busted car lot, said you’d fix up anything I picked.”

“And you chose that rusted-out Chevy,” he said, laughing. “I spent three months on that thing just to impress you.”

“Worth it, though. Got me to kiss you.”

“Damn right it did.” He stopped walking, turned to face her, and for a moment they were just them—no bills, no past, no Darius lurking in the wings. He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks, and kissed her slow, like he was memorizing her. She tasted BBQ sauce and promises, and her heart thumped hard enough to drown out the city.

When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his. “We’re good, right? You and me?”

“Better than good,” he said, voice low. “We’re forever, Lena.”

She wanted to bottle that moment, keep it safe in her pocket for when the days got hard. And they would—she knew that. Life didn’t let you climb without tripping you up sometimes. But standing there, with his warmth seeping into her, she let herself believe in forever.

His phone buzzed again, shattering the quiet. Marcus cursed under his breath and fished it out of his pocket, squinting at the screen. “Darius, man, I swear—”

“Answer it,” Lena said, sharper than she meant. “He’s not gonna stop.”

Marcus hesitated, then hit the button. “D, I told you I’m busy. What’s so damn urgent?” His voice was tight, the easy charm gone. Lena couldn’t make out Darius’s words, just the fast, jagged rhythm of them, like a man running out of time. Marcus’s jaw clenched, and he turned away from her, lowering his voice. “Not tonight. I said I’d handle it. Just—chill, alright?”

He hung up, shoving the phone back in his pocket, but the air between them had shifted, thickened with something unsaid. Lena crossed her arms, waiting. “What’s he want now?”

“Nothing big.” Marcus shrugged, but his eyes wouldn’t meet hers. “Shop stuff. One of the guys messed up a job.”

“You’re a bad liar,” she said, half-teasing, half-worried. “If it’s nothing, why’s he blowing you up?”

“Lena, drop it.” He softened it with a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s not ruin this, okay? It’s our night.”

She nodded, swallowing the questions piling up in her throat. He took her hand again, and they kept walking, the BBQ joint fading into the dark behind them. But the weight of that call clung to her, heavy as the humid air, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that their last good day was slipping through her fingers.

The walk stretched on, Peachtree giving way to quieter streets lined with sagging porches and flickering streetlights. Lena’s hand stayed in Marcus’s, her fingers laced tight through his, but her mind kept circling back to that call. Darius had a knack for showing up uninvited, like a storm cloud you couldn’t outrun. She’d never said it out loud—not to Marcus, anyway—but she blamed him for half the scars her husband carried, the ones he hid behind that easy grin. Still, Marcus loved him, and she loved Marcus, so she’d learned to live with the shadow.

They turned onto their block, a row of brick apartments with chipped paint and mismatched curtains. Home wasn’t fancy—third floor, no elevator, a kitchen sink that dripped no matter how many times Marcus swore he’d fixed it—but it was theirs. She’d hung a string of fairy lights on the balcony last Christmas, and they still glowed faintly, a stubborn little constellation against the night.

“Race you up?” Marcus said, breaking the silence with a nudge. His voice had that playful edge again, like he was trying to shake off whatever Darius had dumped on him.

“You’re on,” she shot back, already bolting for the stairs. He laughed and chased her, his boots thumping behind her as she took the steps two at a time. Her lungs burned by the second floor, but she pushed on, grinning when she beat him to the landing. She spun around, triumphant, and he caught her by the waist, pulling her close.

“Cheater,” he panted, his breath warm against her ear.

“Winner,” she corrected, and kissed him quick, tasting salt and victory. For a second, it was just them again, the world small and simple.

Inside, the apartment smelled like lavender from the candle she’d lit that morning. Marcus kicked off his boots by the door, and Lena flopped onto the couch, tugging him down with her. The cushions sagged under their weight, but she didn’t care. He stretched out, resting his head in her lap, and she ran her fingers through his short curls, tracing the shape of his skull like she could hold him together that way.

“Tell me about that porch again,” he murmured, eyes half-closed. “The one we’re gonna have.”

She smiled, letting the dream spill out. “Big enough for a swing, like I said. Maybe a rocking chair, too. I’ll plant jasmine so it smells sweet all summer. And you’ll grill out there, burning half the burgers ‘cause you get distracted talking.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said, and she could hear the ache in it, the hunger for something solid after years of slipping through life’s cracks. “We’ll get there, Lena. I swear.”

“I know.” She bent down, pressing her lips to his forehead. “We’ve already made it this far.”

His phone buzzed again, rattling against the coffee table. She froze, her hand still in his hair, and he groaned, sitting up. “This damn fool—”

“Don’t,” she said, sharper than she meant. “Just let it go, Marcus. Please.”

He looked at her, really looked, and something softened in his face. “Alright,” he said, switching the phone to silent. “No more tonight. Just us.”

She nodded, relieved, and curled into his side. They sat there in the quiet, the fairy lights flickering through the window, the city humming beyond the walls. She listened to his heartbeat, steady and strong, and told herself it was enough—that they could keep this, hold it tight. But deep down, she felt it: a crack forming, thin as a hairline, waiting to split wide open.

And outside, in the dark, Darius’s unanswered call hung like a promise—or a threat—yet to be kept.