Six months slipped by like water through cracked hands, quiet and relentless. Lena had moved out of the old apartment—too many ghosts in the creak of the stairs, the hum of the fairy lights she’d unplugged and boxed away. Now she lived in a one-bedroom off Ponce, a squat brick building with chipped paint and a landlord who didn’t ask questions. The rent was cheaper, the space smaller, but it was hers alone, a clean slate she scrubbed raw with bleach and stubborn will.

She’d landed a contract with a boutique design firm, a gig that paid enough to keep the lights on and the Corolla running. Mornings started with coffee—black, no sugar, the way Marcus hated it—and a sketchpad spread across the kitchen counter, her fingers smudging charcoal as she mocked up logos and layouts. It wasn’t passion, not like the art she’d dreamed of in school, but it was steady, a rhythm she could lean into when everything else felt like quicksand.

That Thursday, the air crisp with late April, she sat in a coffee shop near Midtown, waiting on a client. The place buzzed with laptops and low chatter, the smell of espresso cutting through the spring breeze slipping in from the open door. She’d finished a draft for a yoga studio’s branding—flowy lines, muted greens—and was nursing a latte when he walked up: Elliot Grayson, all pressed slacks and quiet confidence, a man who looked like he belonged in boardrooms, not her messy orbit.

“Lena Harper?” he asked, voice smooth with a hint of Carolina drawl. He extended a hand, his watch catching the light—a real one, not the knockoffs Marcus used to tease her about.

“That’s me,” she said, shaking it, her grip firm despite the flutter in her gut. “You’re the architect?”

“Guilty,” he said, smiling easy, and the word jolted her, a ghost of the courtroom she couldn’t shake. He slid into the seat across from her, setting a leather portfolio on the table. “Saw your work on the firm’s site. Thought you’d be perfect for a project I’m pitching—mixed-use space downtown, needs a vibe.”

She nodded, flipping open her sketchpad to hide the tremor in her hands. “I can do vibe. What’s the vision?”

He talked—open layouts, reclaimed wood, a nod to Atlanta’s roots—and she listened, penciling notes, her mind half on his words, half on the way he leaned in, attentive, like she was the only one in the room. He wasn’t Marcus—too polished, too soft-spoken—but there was a steadiness to him that felt foreign, a pull she didn’t expect. When he asked her to grab dinner to hash out details, she said yes before she could overthink it, the word slipping out like a dare to herself.

Back home, she stood under the shower’s weak spray, washing off the day, the steam curling around her like a shield. Marcus’s letters sat on her nightstand—three now, short and careful, penned in his blocky scrawl. The last one had come a week ago: Doing okay. Miss you. Trust Ortiz—he’s working. No mention of Kev, no word on Darius, just a plea to keep going. She wrote back when she could, filling pages with small truths—new place, new job—leaving out the ache that woke her at 3 a.m., the dreams where he was still beside her.

In prison, Marcus was finding his own rhythm, though it was jagged, carved from concrete and steel. The days blurred—chow at six, yard at ten, lights out by nine—but he’d started sketching too, on scraps of paper the guards didn’t confiscate. Cars mostly, sleek lines and curves he’d never build now, a lifeline to the man he’d been. He didn’t tell Lena about the fights—quick, brutal, a busted lip last month—or the way the walls closed in at night, whispering he’d never get out. He kept that locked down, sealed in the letters he didn’t send.

Lena dried off, pulling on a sweater, her phone buzzing with Elliot’s text: See you at 7. She glanced at Marcus’s latest letter, the Miss you staring back, and felt the rhythm falter—a beat skipped, a crack she couldn’t mend. She grabbed her keys and left, the door clicking shut behind her, the night stretching out with possibilities she wasn’t sure she wanted.

The restaurant Elliot picked was tucked off North Highland, a cozy spot with exposed brick and Edison bulbs dangling low, casting a warm glow over the tables. Lena arrived at seven sharp, her sweater swapped for a simple black dress she’d dug out of a moving box—nothing fancy, but it felt like armor, a way to hold herself together. She spotted him by the window, already seated, his jacket draped over the chair, a glass of red wine in hand. He stood when she approached, that easy smile lighting up his face again, and she felt a pang—guilt, maybe, or something softer she couldn’t name.

“You clean up nice,” he said, pulling out her chair with a grace Marcus never had. Marcus would’ve grinned, tugged her into his lap instead, all rough edges and warmth. She pushed the thought down, nodding thanks as she sat.

“You too,” she said, eyeing his crisp shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Didn’t peg you for a wine guy.”

He chuckled, settling back. “Blame my sister—she’s a sommelier, got me hooked. What’s your poison?”

“Coffee, mostly,” she admitted, scanning the menu to avoid his gaze. “Keeps me sane.”

The waiter swung by, and she ordered a pasta dish she barely cared about, her stomach too knotted to eat. Elliot got steak, medium rare, and they fell into talk—easy at first, about the project, the sketches she’d roughed out that afternoon. He liked her ideas, praised the way she’d woven grit into the design, and she felt a flicker of pride, a small anchor in the drift of the past six months.

“You’ve got a real eye,” he said, sipping his wine, his tone shifting from professional to curious. “Where’d you learn?”

“Self-taught, mostly,” she said, twirling her fork through the pasta. “Art classes in high school, then life got in the way. Foster care doesn’t leave much room for dreams.”

His brow lifted, but he didn’t pry, just nodded like he got it. “Tough start. Makes the hustle mean more, though.”

“Yeah.” She paused, the words catching. Marcus used to say that—You’re a fighter, Lena—and the memory stung, sharp and sudden. She took a sip of water, steadying herself. “What about you? Architect with a fancy watch—bet you’ve got a story.”

He grinned, leaning in. “Not as gritty as yours. Grew up in Raleigh, parents pushed school hard. Went to Georgia Tech, stayed for the city. I like building things—making spaces people live in.”

She envied that, the simplicity of it. Her life with Marcus had been about holding things together, not building them. “Sounds nice,” she said, softer than she meant. “Stable.”

“Sometimes,” he said, his eyes catching hers, holding a beat too long. “But stable’s overrated if it’s boring. You don’t strike me as boring, Lena.”

Her breath hitched, a flush creeping up her neck. He wasn’t flirting—not outright—but there was a pull there, a quiet invitation she hadn’t felt in months. She looked down, poking at her food, Marcus’s Miss you flashing in her mind like a warning light. “I’m… complicated,” she said finally, the truth slipping out.

“Complicated’s good,” he replied, unfazed. “Keeps things real.”

Dinner stretched on, the conversation easing into safer ground—music, places they’d been—but that undercurrent stayed, a thread she couldn’t cut. He paid the bill, waved off her protest, and walked her to the Corolla under a sky pricked with stars. The air was cool now, sharp against her skin, and he lingered by her door, hands in his pockets.

“This was nice,” he said, voice low. “We should do it again—work or not.”

She nodded, her throat tight. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He smiled, stepping back, and she slid into the car, the engine coughing awake. As she pulled away, his silhouette shrinking in the rearview, she felt the rhythm shift again—offbeat, unsteady. Marcus’s letter waited at home, a tether pulling her back, but Elliot’s words lingered too, a new note in a song she didn’t know how to play.

Back in her apartment, she kicked off her shoes, the silence loud after the hum of the restaurant. She picked up Marcus’s latest letter, tracing his handwriting, and whispered, “I’m trying,” though she wasn’t sure who she meant it for—him, herself, or the man she’d just left behind. The night pressed in, and she sat there, caught between two rhythms, neither one quite hers.