The prison mailroom smelled of dust and ink, a cramped space where hope came in envelopes or died in the trash. Marcus stood at the counter, his jumpsuit stiff with sweat, as the guard slid him a letter—Ortiz’s neat print, not Lena’s scrawl, but it was enough to jolt his pulse. Eight months in, and every scrap of paper felt like a lifeline. He tore it open, scanning the lines: Kev signed an affidavit—admits robbery, clears you. Appeal filed. Hearing in six weeks. Six weeks. A crack in the wall, wide enough to breathe through.

He clutched the letter, weaving back to his cell through the block’s clang and chatter, Ray’s shadow trailing him from the yard. “Good news?” Ray asked, leaning on the bars, his gray braid swinging.

“Best I’ve had,” Marcus said, voice low but steady. “Kev came through—Darius too, I guess. Ortiz says we’ve got a shot.”

Ray grunted, a rare smile tugging his lips. “Told you—stubborn pays. You owe me that radio fix.”

“Tomorrow,” Marcus promised, sinking onto his bunk. He reread the letter, the words blurring with a hope he hadn’t let himself feel since the verdict. Six weeks could mean freedom—air without bars, Lena’s hand in his again. Her last letter, mailed after their fight, had burned with fight: We’re close—I won’t stop. He’d written back fast, apologies and plans, but the silence since gnawed at him, a thread stretched thin.

He pulled out a fresh sheet, pencil stub trembling in his grip:

Lena,

Ortiz says Kev signed—appeal’s on, hearing soon. I’m coming home, baby—I feel it. Keep pushing. Love you, always.

Marcus

He sealed it, the hope raw but real, and handed it off, trusting it’d find her. Freedom was a long road, but he’d walk it, one step at a time.

In Atlanta, Lena sat in her apartment, the midday sun slanting through the blinds, Ortiz’s call still ringing in her ears. “Kev’s affidavit holds,” he’d said, clipped and cautious. “Hearing’s set—six weeks. Stay ready.” She’d thanked him, her voice steady despite the quake in her chest, and hung up, the news a lifeline she’d clawed for since Savannah. Darius had delivered—dragged Kev to a notary, half-high but lucid enough to sign—and now the appeal loomed, a chance to pull Marcus back.

Her laptop hummed on the counter, the yoga studio project wrapping up, but Elliot’s name blinked in her inbox—Lunch today?—and her stomach twisted. That night in his office, a week ago, had shifted everything—his touch a balm she’d craved, then a wound she couldn’t close. She’d gone to work the next day, faced him with a tight smile, and said, “It’s complicated,” her voice a wall. He’d nodded, gentle but hurt, and kept his distance since, the space between them a quiet ache.

She typed back: Busy—rain check. A lie, but she needed room, needed to untangle the mess before Marcus’s letter hit her mailbox. She’d crossed a line with Elliot, let herself fall, and the guilt was a stone she carried everywhere—every call to Ortiz, every push for Kev. But the appeal was here, real, and she’d bury that stone to bring Marcus home.

The buzzer rang—Jade, unannounced, her braids swinging as she barged in with a paper bag. “Food,” she said, dropping it on the table. “You look like death—eat.”

Lena managed a laugh, weak but grateful, and dug into the fried chicken, the grease a comfort she didn’t deserve. “Ortiz called,” she said between bites. “Kev signed. Hearing’s in six.”

Jade’s eyes lit up, fierce. “Hell yes! We’re getting him out—told you.”

“Yeah,” Lena said, softer, the chicken sticking in her throat. “We are.”

Jade squinted, reading her like always. “What’s eating you? This is good—don’t tell me you’re still moping.”

Lena hesitated, Elliot’s kiss flashing, then shook her head. “Just tired. It’s a lot.”

“Liar,” Jade said, but let it drop, shoving a biscuit her way. “Rest up—we’ve got a fight left.”

Lena nodded, the biscuit warm in her hands, and felt the road back to Marcus stretch out—six weeks to freedom, to forgiveness, maybe. Elliot lingered, a shadow she couldn’t shake, but she’d walk that road, tangled heart and all, until Marcus was beside her again.

Lena left Jade munching biscuits on her couch, the chicken grease still slick on her fingers as she grabbed her keys and headed out. She couldn’t dodge Elliot forever—not with their project winding down, not with his email unanswered beyond a curt rain check. She drove to his office, the Midtown skyline glinting in the afternoon sun, her stomach a knot of resolve and regret. She owed him clarity, even if it cut, because Marcus’s appeal was a light she couldn’t let dim.

Elliot was at his desk, blueprints spread wide, his sleeves rolled up like that night a week ago. He looked up when she knocked, surprise softening into a cautious smile. “Lena,” he said, standing, “didn’t expect you.”

“Needed to talk,” she said, stepping in, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. She shut the door, the click loud in the quiet, and faced him, arms crossed. “About us—about that night.”

His smile faded, his eyes searching hers. “Okay. Say it.”

She took a breath, the words heavy. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—can’t—let it happen again. I’m married, Elliot. Marcus is… he’s coming home soon, maybe. I’ve got to be there.”

He nodded, slow, his jaw tightening but his voice calm. “I figured. Saw it in you after—the way you pulled back. I’m not blind, Lena.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said, softer, the guilt sharp. “You’re good—too good. But I can’t split myself like that.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just close enough to make her feel the warmth of him. “You’re not split. You’re torn. I get it—love’s messy. But I’m here, still, if you ever…” He trailed off, shrugging, a half-smile breaking through. “Work’s safe, though. We’ll finish this clean.”

She exhaled, relief mixing with a pang she couldn’t name. “Thanks,” she said, meeting his gaze. “For everything.”

He waved it off, turning back to his desk, and she left, the door clicking shut again—a line drawn, shaky but firm. The drive home felt lighter, Marcus’s appeal a beacon she could chase without shadows, even if Elliot’s kindness lingered like a bruise.

In prison, Marcus sat in the visiting room—not the Plexiglas booth this time, but a small table, Ortiz across from him in a cheap suit, his glasses fogged from the heat. The guard hovered by the door, but Marcus barely noticed, his focus on the papers Ortiz spread out: Kev’s affidavit, a grainy photo of him signing, Darius’s scrawl on a witness statement.

“Solid,” Ortiz said, tapping the affidavit. “Kev’s shaky—half a junkie, half a liar—but he’s consistent: you dropped him off, he hit the gas station alone, used your name to dodge the heat. Judge might buy it.”

“Might?” Marcus leaned in, his voice low, urgent. “Six weeks—I need more than might, Ortiz.”

Ortiz sighed, adjusting his glasses. “It’s a shot—best we’ve got. Your record’s clean since juvie, Darius backs the timeline, and the cashier’s ID was weak—dark, raining. We push reasonable doubt, flip the narrative. But Kev’s gotta show—live, in court—or it’s paper in the wind.”

Marcus nodded, his bruised knuckles flexing. “Darius’ll drag him. He knows what’s riding on this.”

“Hope so,” Ortiz said, gathering the papers. “Lena’s on it too—called me twice, lit a fire. She’s all in.”

Marcus’s chest tightened, her name a jolt. “She wrote—said she’s fighting. Haven’t heard since.”

“She’s stretched,” Ortiz said, blunt. “But she’s there. You’ve got a good one—don’t forget it.”

He stood, briefcase snapping shut, and Marcus stayed seated, Ortiz’s words sinking in. Lena was fighting—stretched thin, like he’d told Ray—and the silence wasn’t her letting go, maybe, but her digging in. He’d write again tonight, keep the line alive, tell her about the hearing, the hope. Six weeks to freedom, to her, and he’d claw through every day to get there.

Back in his cell, he scratched a tally on the wall—42 days—and felt the road back shorten, a path he could see now, even if it was rough. Lena had her battles, he had his, but they were still tethered, pulling toward the same end. He’d hold that, bruised and all, until he could hold her instead.

Lena got home as dusk fell, Jade gone, the apartment quiet. She kicked off her shoes, the weight of Elliot’s grace lifting, and sat with Marcus’s last letter, her pen hovering. She’d write back—tell him about Ortiz, the hearing, her fight. The road was long, but she’d walk it, step by bruised step, until he was home.