The shop smelled of grease and rust a week after Marcus’s release, the Tate’s Auto sign flickering in the late afternoon sun as he stood by the bay, a wrench in hand he hadn’t touched yet. Freedom was seven days old—seven nights in Lena’s bed, seven mornings of coffee and quiet—and he was here, back where it started, facing Darius again. The Chevy from his first day out still sat half-stripped, a job he’d offered to finish, needing work, needing something to hold beyond the cracks Lena’s confession had left.

Darius emerged from the office, a rag in his pocket, his cap tilted back, eyes wary as they met Marcus’s. “You’re early,” he said, voice cautious, stepping closer but stopping short, the space between them a gulf they hadn’t bridged.

“Figured I’d start,” Marcus said, flat, tossing the wrench onto the workbench, the clatter sharp in the quiet. “Need the cash—Lena’s place ain’t free.”

Darius nodded, rubbing his jaw, the guilt from their last talk still raw in his slump. “Good to have you back,” he said, tentative. “Shop’s been slow—could use you.”

Marcus snorted, leaning on the Chevy, his hands flexing. “Could’ve used me a year ago—when you let Kev walk in, kept your mouth shut.” The words cut, deliberate, and Darius flinched, the air thickening with the past.

“I told you—I messed up,” Darius said, low, stepping forward. “Fixed it, got him to sign. You’re out—ain’t that enough?”

“Enough?” Marcus straightened, his voice rising, the shop’s hum fading. “Eight months, Darius—solitary, fights, Lena breaking to pull me out. You don’t get to call it enough.”

Darius’s face hardened, then softened, a crack showing. “I know,” he said, quiet. “I owe you—always will. Let me try, man—work, whatever. We’re still blood.”

Marcus stared, the offer a shard in the rubble—blood, yes, but bent. “We’ll see,” he said, grabbing the wrench again, turning to the Chevy, the metal cold under his hands. Picking up pieces wasn’t forgiveness, but it was a start, and he’d take it, one bolt at a time.

In the apartment, Lena sat at the kitchen counter, her sketchpad open to a half-finished logo, the pencil still as she stared at the lines—jagged, like her thoughts. A week since Marcus walked free, since she’d spilled Elliot’s name, and the air between them was tender, bruised but holding. He’d slept beside her every night, his arm over her waist, but his quiet was heavy, his I’m free, but it’s heavy from that first day a truth they hadn’t unpacked.

She’d cooked breakfast—eggs, toast, his grin small but real—and he’d left for the shop, kissing her quick, Back soon. The routine was new, fragile, a rhythm they were building from the wreckage. But Elliot’s shadow lingered—her note, her tears, the confession she’d laid bare—and she felt it, the trust she’d bent, the pieces she had to pick up.

Her phone buzzed—Jade, checking in. “He working?” Jade asked, her voice bright through the line.

“Yeah—shop with Darius,” Lena said, tracing the sketch, her grip tight. “Trying to settle in.”

“Good,” Jade said. “You two okay? After… you know.”

Lena swallowed, the you know—Elliot—a weight she couldn’t dodge. “Getting there,” she said, half-true. “He’s hurt, but he’s here. I’m trying.”

“You’re enough,” Jade said, firm. “He sees it—give it time.”

She hung up, Jade’s faith a buoy, and Lena stood, pacing to the window, the city humming below. She’d faced the mirror that night, owned it, and Marcus had stayed—silent, wounded, but stayed. She’d mend it—dinners, talks, the porch swing he’d promised—piece by piece, day by day.

Marcus tightened a bolt, the Chevy’s engine purring under his hands, a small win in the mess. Darius worked nearby, quiet, the truce unspoken but there—a start, not a fix. Lena waited at home, her I’m sorry still raw, her love a tether he’d hold, even bruised. Freedom was work—shop, her, them—and he’d pick up the pieces, slow and steady, until they fit again.

Lena grabbed her pencil, the sketch smoothing under her hand, and felt it—a rhythm forming, cracked but hers, theirs, to rebuild.

The apartment glowed soft with lamplight as Marcus stepped in, the clock ticking past 7 p.m., his hands stained with grease from the shop, the Chevy’s hum still buzzing in his bones. A week free, and the day had been heavy—Darius’s I owe you a start, not a fix, the wrench a weight he’d carried home. Lena stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled like home—collards, maybe, with that smoky edge—and she turned, her smile small but real, her apron dusted with flour.

“Hey,” she said, wiping her hands, stepping toward him, her eyes searching his like they had all week—checking for cracks, for him. “How’d it go?”

“Hey,” he said back, kicking off his boots, the floor cool under his socks as he met her halfway, his hand brushing her arm. “Alright—worked the Chevy, talked to Darius. He’s trying, I guess.”

She nodded, her grip tightening on the spoon she still held, a flicker of that night—the shop, her fury—crossing her face. “Good,” she said, soft. “Dinner’s ready—sit.”

He sank onto the couch, the table set with mismatched plates, a pitcher of sweet tea sweating in the heat. She brought out bowls—collards, cornbread, a slab of pork chop—and they ate, the clink of forks a quiet rhythm, the TV off, the city’s hum faint beyond the walls. Freedom tasted better here—her cooking, her beside him—but the air held something, her confession from that first night a bruise they hadn’t touched since.

“You’re quiet,” she said finally, pushing greens around her plate, her voice tentative, eyes on him. “Darius get to you?”

He chewed slow, the pork tender, her question sharper. “Some,” he said, setting his fork down, leaning back. “He’s sorry—means it, maybe. But it’s there—eight months he let slide. Then you…” He trailed off, Elliot’s name unspoken but loud, his jaw tightening.

Lena’s breath hitched, her hand stilling, and she met his gaze, raw and steady. “I know,” she said, low, pushing her plate aside. “I see it—every day, you looking at me, wondering. I’m still sorry, Marcus—will be forever.”

He rubbed his face, the stubble rough, her sorry a weight he felt but couldn’t lift yet. “I get it,” he said, slow, his voice thick. “You were alone—I was gone, fighting in there. But it cuts, Lena—thinking you turned somewhere else.”

She stood, crossing to him, kneeling by the couch, her hands on his knees, trembling but firm. “I didn’t turn,” she said, fierce, tears glinting. “It was a night—a stupid, broken night—and I stopped it, swore it’d never happen. You’re my somewhere, always.”

He looked down, her face a mirror—guilt, love, the woman who’d pulled him out—and felt the hurt shift, not gone but softer, a piece he could hold. “I believe you,” he said, quiet, his hand covering hers, squeezing. “Just… takes time—Darius, you, all of it.”

She nodded, climbing up beside him, her head on his shoulder, the warmth a balm after the day’s edges. “We’ve got time,” she whispered, her breath warm on his neck. “I’ll keep picking it up—us, you—‘til it’s right.”

He pulled her closer, his arm around her, the collards cooling on the table, and they sat, the silence softer now, a rhythm forming—cracked, yes, but theirs. Darius’s shadow lingered, a talk unfinished, and her night with Elliot a scar they’d trace, but tonight they breathed, pieces settling, the fight behind them giving way to this.

Lena felt his heartbeat under her cheek, steady, real, and let the guilt ease—not gone, but lighter, his I believe you a thread she’d weave back into trust. She’d cooked for him, held him, faced the mirror, and he’d stayed—hurt, yes, but here. The shop had cut him today, Darius’s debt a weight he’d carry, but she’d carry hers too—Elliot, the confession—and they’d mend it, meal by meal, night by night.

Marcus kissed her hair, the taste of freedom sharper with her, and felt the pieces shift—Darius a bruise, her a home, the day’s work a start. He’d fix the Chevy tomorrow, talk to her more, pick it up slow, and they’d find it—the porch swing, the life—beneath the cracks, together.