The shop’s lot was a gritty sprawl under a noon sun, the Tate’s Auto sign buzzing faint as Marcus stepped from the Corolla—borrowed from Lena, keys still warm in his pocket. Freedom was hours old, the air sharp with oil and earth, and he stood there, jeans stiff from disuse, his pulse a steady thud as he spotted Darius by the garage bay, wrench in hand, a half-stripped Chevy looming behind him. Eight months of bars, Kev’s shaky truth, and Darius’s I didn’t know had led to this—a reckoning he couldn’t dodge.

Darius looked up, his cap shadowing his eyes, and froze, the wrench clattering to the concrete. “Marcus,” he said, voice rough, stepping forward like he might hug him, but Marcus raised a hand, stopping him cold.

“Don’t,” Marcus said, low and hard, his fists flexing at his sides. “You knew—Ortiz said it, Kev too. That night, you watched him go in, let him pin it on me. Why?”

Darius’s jaw tightened, guilt flashing raw before he masked it, rubbing his neck. “I didn’t know he’d use your name—swear it. He was high, ranting—I yelled, thought he’d back off. By the time I figured it, you were nabbed.”

“Eight months,” Marcus cut in, stepping closer, his voice rising. “Eight months I sat in there, and you said nothing—brother, blood. You let me rot.”

“I fixed it!” Darius shot back, his hands out, pleading. “Got Kev, dragged him to Savannah—made him sign. You’re out, ain’t you?”

“Too damn late,” Marcus said, his chest heaving, the hurt a blade he couldn’t pull out. “You owed me—juvie, the shop, every time I covered your ass. And you stood there, let him screw me.”

Darius looked away, the shop’s hum filling the silence, and Marcus saw it—the crack, the shame he’d carried since the hearing. “I messed up,” Darius muttered, low. “I’m sorry, man—should’ve stopped him, should’ve talked.”

“Yeah,” Marcus said, bitter, turning away, the apology a pebble against a mountain. “You should’ve.” He walked back to the car, the gravel crunching under his boots, leaving Darius in the dust—a bond bent, not broken, but nowhere near whole.

In the apartment, Lena stood at the sink, dishes soaking in suds, the afternoon light slanting through the window as she scrubbed a plate too hard, the sponge fraying in her grip. Marcus had left an hour ago—Darius first, then us—his kiss lingering on her lips, his freedom a weight she’d fought for and won. But the mirror loomed now, her reflection sharp with Elliot’s shadow—his touch, that night, a secret she’d buried under the appeal’s grind, a betrayal she couldn’t dodge anymore.

She’d called Jade earlier, voice shaky: “He’s out—saw Darius. It’s real.” Jade had cheered, promised dinner tomorrow, but Lena’s I’m good had rung hollow, the truth pressing close. Marcus deserved it—her honesty, the crack she’d made—and she’d tell him tonight, when he came back, bruised from Darius but hers again. The plate slipped, splashing suds on her shirt, and she cursed, the mess a mirror to her own.

Her phone buzzed—Elliot, a text: Heard he’s free—congrats. Here if you need me. She stared, her thumb hovering, then deleted it, the words a pull she’d cut but couldn’t unfeel. She’d faced him, drawn the line, but that night lingered—a choice she’d made, a guilt she’d carried through every letter, every visit. Marcus had fought Kev, Darius, the system; she’d fought too, but stumbled, and the mirror showed it clear—love, yes, but flawed, human, hers to own.

She dried her hands, the suds dripping, and pulled out paper, pen trembling as she wrote: Marcus, I need to tell you something—tonight. Love you. She left it on the counter, a promise to face it, the day’s light fading as she waited, the apartment quiet with her reckoning.

Marcus drove back, the Corolla’s engine a low hum, Darius’s I’m sorry a burr in his skull. He’d faced it, the mirror of his brother’s failure, and it hurt—deep, raw—but he’d breathe through it, with Lena, the woman who’d pulled him out. The road home stretched, freedom’s first day sharp and jagged, and he’d meet her there, ready or not.

The Corolla’s engine growled soft as Marcus pulled into the lot off Ponce, the dusk sky a bruise of purple and gold, the rain from morning long gone. His hands gripped the wheel, Darius’s I’m sorry a bitter echo still ringing, the shop’s dust clinging to his boots. Freedom’s first day was a jagged thing—Lena’s arms that morning, Darius’s guilt by noon—and now he climbed the stairs, the weight of it settling, his knock on her door a beat too hard, too fast. He wanted her, the tether, to steady him after the cut.

Lena opened it, her robe loose, eyes wide with a flicker he couldn’t read—relief, maybe, or something heavier. “Hey,” she said, stepping aside, her voice soft but strained, and he walked in, the apartment warm with coffee and soap, a home he’d reclaim step by step.

“Hey,” he echoed, kicking off his shoes, sinking onto the couch as she hovered by the counter, her note—I need to tell you—crumpled in her fist. “Darius,” he started, rubbing his neck, “he owned it—knew Kev went in, didn’t stop him. Said he’s sorry, but it’s thin.”

She nodded, crossing to him, her bare feet silent on the floor. “He should’ve,” she said, fierce, sitting close, her hand on his knee. “You deserved better.”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand covering hers, the touch a balm after the shop’s sting. But her quiet stretched, her grip tightening, and he turned, catching the shadow in her eyes. “Lena—what? You’ve been off all day.”

She pulled back, standing fast, the note dropping to the cushion as she paced, her breath hitching. “I’ve gotta say it,” she said, low, facing him, her arms wrapped tight around herself. “Something happened—while you were in. I messed up, Marcus.”

His chest tightened, a cold prickle climbing his spine. “Messed up how?” he asked, voice steady but thin, leaning forward, the room shrinking.

She swallowed, tears glinting, and met his gaze, raw and unblinking. “Elliot—guy from work. One night, late, after the gala… I kissed him. More than that. It was once—I stopped it, cut him off—but it happened. I’m sorry.”

The words landed like a fist, knocking the air from him, and he stood, slow, his hands flexing. “You—what?” he rasped, the betrayal a roar in his skull—Darius’s echo, now hers, sharper, closer. “Eight months I’m in there, fighting, and you’re—”

“I know,” she cut in, stepping toward him, her voice breaking. “I know—I was drowning, Marcus. You were gone, I was alone, and he was there. It was wrong—I hate it, hate myself. I fought for you every day after, swore I’d get you out.”

He turned away, pacing to the window, the city lights a blur through the glass. “Fought for me,” he muttered, bitter, his hands raking his hair. “While you’re with him—some suit, some—”

“Once,” she said, fierce, grabbing his arm, spinning him back. “Once, and I stopped it—told him no, kept it work. I love you—always you. I didn’t tell you ‘til now ‘cause I couldn’t lose you in there.”

He stared at her, her tears, her trembling hands, and felt it—the love, still there, bruised and real, tangled with the hurt. “You should’ve told me,” he said, low, pulling free, the couch creaking as he sank back. “Solitary, fights—I held you up, Lena. And you…”

“I’m here,” she said, kneeling before him, her hands on his knees, desperate. “I’m here now—faced it, owned it. I’ll spend every day making it right.”

He looked down, her face a mirror—guilt, resolve, the woman he’d missed—and the anger ebbed, slow, leaving a hollow ache. “Darius cut me today,” he said, quiet. “Now you. I’m free, but it’s heavy.”

“I know,” she whispered, her forehead to his knee, tears soaking his jeans. “I’m sorry—I’ll carry it with you.”

He lifted her chin, his thumb brushing her cheek, and pulled her up, her weight settling beside him. They sat, silent, the dusk deepening, the first day a cracked thing—freedom won, trust bent. He’d forgive, maybe, with time, but the mirror held them both now, flaws and all, and the road ahead stretched, bruised but theirs.