The clock on Elliot’s desk read 11:47 p.m., the office a quiet island of light in the darkened building. Lena sat cross-legged on the floor, blueprints and takeout boxes scattered around her, her laptop glowing with the final tweaks to their project’s signage. They’d been at it for hours—refining angles, debating fonts—pushing past the gala’s success into the gritty details of execution. Her hair was up in a messy bun, her sleeves rolled, and Elliot sprawled beside her, tie gone, his laughter filling the room as she mocked his last sketch.

“You’re hopeless with curves,” she said, nudging his shoulder, the contact sparking more than she meant it to.

“Says the woman who turned my box into art,” he shot back, grinning, his eyes catching hers in the dim glow. The air shifted, the banter fading, and she felt it—the pull that had been building since the rooftop, stronger now in the late-night haze.

He reached for her hand, slow, giving her room to pull back. She didn’t. His fingers laced through hers, warm and steady, and her breath caught, Marcus’s I’m still yours whispering in her skull. But Elliot was here, real, his thumb brushing her knuckles, and the ache of the past year—the prison visits, the breaking point—pressed down until she couldn’t breathe under it.

“Lena,” he said, soft, a question and a promise, and she answered by leaning in, her lips finding his. This time it wasn’t tentative—it was hungry, urgent, her hands sliding to his neck as he pulled her closer, the blueprints crinkling beneath them. They stumbled to the couch by the window, her heart pounding with want and guilt, and when he kissed her again, deeper, she let herself fall, the world narrowing to his touch, his breath, a different kind of love she hadn’t known she craved.

After, she lay against him, the city lights filtering through the blinds, her skin cooling as reality crept back. She’d crossed a line—Marcus’s letter, unread from yesterday, burned in her bag—and the weight of it settled, heavy and sharp. Elliot traced circles on her arm, oblivious, and whispered, “Stay,” but she shook her head, slipping free with a mumbled excuse about dawn deadlines. She drove home, the Corolla silent, her lips still tingling, and cried in the shower, the water washing away nothing.

In prison, Marcus sat in the rec room, a battered table between him and Ray, the older man shuffling a deck of cards with hands scarred from decades inside. It was a week since the visit, five days since his letter, and still no word from Lena—just a note from Ortiz saying Darius was in Savannah, Kev still a ghost. The silence gnawed, but Ray had pulled him here today, gruff and insistent: “Play a hand, kid. Clear your head.”

“Spades,” Ray said, dealing with a flick of his wrist. “You any good?”

“Used to be,” Marcus said, picking up his cards, the edges worn soft. “Played with my brother—Darius—back when we were tight.”

Ray grunted, laying a spade. “Family’s a bitch. Mine’s why I’m here—brother set me up, took the fall.”

Marcus matched it, his mind drifting to Darius, to Kev, to Lena’s fading voice. “Yeah. Keeps you guessing.”

They played in quiet, the slap of cards a steady rhythm against the rec room’s hum—TV buzzing, men arguing over dominoes. Ray won the first hand, his grin crooked, and Marcus felt a crack in the weight he carried, a small ease he hadn’t expected. Ray leaned back, lighting a cigarette—smuggled, somehow—and offered him one.

“Nah,” Marcus said, waving it off. “She hates it—Lena.”

“She’s still out there,” Ray said, exhaling smoke. “You’re still in here. Keep your head up—Kev’ll turn up.”

Marcus nodded, the cards warm in his hands. Ray wasn’t family, wasn’t freedom, but he was solid—a tether in the chaos, a different kind of love carved from shared scars. He played another hand, losing again, and let the moment hold him, the silence from Lena a wound he couldn’t touch yet.

Back in Atlanta, Lena dried off, Elliot’s scent still on her skin, and stared at Marcus’s letter—I’m still yours—the words a knife she couldn’t pull out. She’d fallen tonight, and the distance wasn’t just growing—it was a chasm now, one she’d leapt into, unsure if she’d ever climb back.

The morning sun sliced through Lena’s blinds, sharp and unforgiving, pulling her from a shallow sleep on the couch. She woke with a start, the black dress tangled around her legs, Marcus’s letter crumpled under her hip. Her mouth tasted sour, her head thick with the echo of Elliot’s voice—Stay—and the feel of his hands, a memory she couldn’t scrub away. The clock read 6:32 a.m., and the apartment was silent, the weight of last night settling like dust she couldn’t sweep.

She stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, her reflection a stranger—eyes puffy, lips still swollen from a kiss that wasn’t Marcus’s. She gripped the sink, staring herself down, and whispered, “What the hell did you do?” No answer came, just the drip of the faucet and the guilt clawing up her throat. She’d crossed a line she couldn’t uncross, and the letter on the couch—Marcus’s I’m still yours—felt like a brand she didn’t deserve.

Her phone buzzed on the counter—Jade, relentless as ever. Lena answered, voice hoarse. “Yeah?”

“Ortiz called,” Jade said, no preamble. “Darius found Kev in Savannah—some flop house off Bay Street. He’s talking, Lena—says it was him, not Marcus. Ortiz is driving down today.”

Her heart lurched, hope and dread tangling tight. “Talking how? Will he sign something?”

“Maybe,” Jade said, cautious. “He’s strung out, paranoid—Darius had to drag him off a couch. But it’s a shot. You good? You sound like hell.”

Lena swallowed, the lie bitter on her tongue. “Didn’t sleep. I’ll call Ortiz—keep it moving.”

She hung up before Jade could press, her hands shaking as she dialed Ortiz. He picked up, his voice clipped. “Harper, I’m on it. Kev’s a mess, but if he holds, we’ve got grounds for an appeal. Stay put—I’ll update you.”

“Make it stick,” she said, fierce, and hung up, the spark reigniting despite the mess in her chest. She’d betrayed Marcus last night, but she could still fight for him—had to, now more than ever. She grabbed the letter, smoothing it out, and wrote back, her pen digging into the page:

Marcus, Kev’s in Savannah—Darius got him. Ortiz is there. We’re close—I won’t stop. I’m sorry about the visit. I’m here, still. Love, Lena

She sealed it, her tears smudging the ink, and vowed to mail it before the day was out. Elliot’s face lingered, a shadow she couldn’t face yet, but Kev was a lifeline—she’d cling to it, for Marcus, for them.

In prison, Marcus woke to the clang of the cellblock, his bunk hard against his bruised ribs. The rec room game with Ray had steadied him last night, a small anchor in the drift, and now he shuffled to breakfast, the grits cold but edible. Ray slid in across from him, his gray braid swinging as he leaned over the tray.

“Word came,” Ray said, voice low under the mess hall’s din. “My guy in Savannah—he’s got eyes on Kev. Dealer’s place, Bay Street. Your brother’s there, stirring shit.”

Marcus’s spoon froze halfway to his mouth, his pulse kicking up. “Darius? He found him?”

“Seems so,” Ray said, cracking a knuckle. “Kev’s flapping—admits he did it, says you’re clean. But he’s jumpy—might run again.”

Marcus dropped the spoon, leaning in. “Tell your guy to hold him—tie him up if he has to. Ortiz needs him locked down.”

Ray nodded, chewing slow. “Cost you. Another radio fix, maybe.”

“Done,” Marcus said, fast. “Anything. This is it, Ray—I feel it.”

Ray smirked, a rare crack in his stone face. “You’re a stubborn bastard, Tate. I like that. I’ll push it through.”

Marcus ate quick, the grits tasteless but fuel, his mind racing. Lena had to know—Darius too—and if Ortiz could nail Kev, he might breathe free air again. The silence from her stung, but Ray’s gruff faith patched it, a different kind of love he hadn’t expected to find in here. He’d write her again today, keep the line open, and hold onto the man he’d been—the one she’d loved, the one he still was, beneath the bars.

Lena mailed the letter at noon, the post office humming around her, and drove to work, Elliot’s office looming. She’d face him today, the truth of last night between them, but Kev’s confession burned brighter—a chance to pull Marcus back, to mend what she’d broken. The tangle held, but she’d fight through it, one thread at a time.