Three weeks into freedom, Marcus stood in the shop’s lot, the late May sun baking the asphalt, a torque wrench heavy in his hand as he tightened a bolt on a rusted Ford. The Tate’s Auto sign buzzed overhead, the rhythm of work—three days a week now—a steady pulse in his bones, grounding him after the chaos of release. Lena’s apartment was home, her bed a haven, but the edges of healing were sharp—Darius’s guilt a burr he hadn’t pulled, her confession a scar he traced in quiet moments.

Darius emerged from the bay, a clipboard in hand, his cap tilted back, eyes cautious as they met Marcus’s. They’d worked in truce these weeks—gruff nods, small talk—but the air held it, the night he’d let Kev pin him, the I owe you still unpaid. “Parts came,” Darius said, voice low, tossing the clipboard on a crate. “Ford’s done tomorrow if you push.”

“Pushin’ already,” Marcus said, wiping sweat from his brow, the wrench clinking as he set it down. “You gonna keep dodging, or we talking real?”

Darius stiffened, his jaw tight, but he didn’t look away. “Ain’t dodging,” he said, stepping closer, the gravel crunching. “Said I’m sorry—meant it. What you want, Marcus? Blood?”

“Truth,” Marcus snapped, turning to face him, his hands flexing. “You watched him go in—knew he’d screw me. Eight months, and you’re still half-assing it. Why?”

Darius’s face crumpled, the mask slipping, and he rubbed his neck, voice breaking. “Scared, man—I froze. Kev was a mess, I thought he’d flake, not frame you. By the time I saw it, you were gone—I couldn’t face it.”

Marcus stared, the admission a shard in the rubble—fear, not malice, but it cut all the same. “You’re my brother,” he said, low, bitter. “Should’ve faced it then—saved us both.”

“I know,” Darius said, stepping closer, his hands out. “I’m here now—shop, you, whatever it takes. Let me fix it.”

Marcus turned away, the Ford’s hood warm under his palm, the edge softening but not gone. “Keep showing up,” he said, gruff, picking up the wrench. “We’ll see.” It wasn’t peace, but it was a piece, and he’d take it, slow and jagged.

Across town, Lena sat in a coffee shop off Midtown, her sketchpad open to a new design—freelance now, steady gigs—and her latte cooling as she sketched, the hum of chatter a backdrop to her thoughts. Three weeks with Marcus—dinners, nights, his hands steadying her—had smoothed the cracks, her I’m sorry from that first day a thread they’d woven back. But the edges held—Elliot’s shadow a quiet ache she hadn’t shaken.

The door chimed, and she looked up, her pencil stilling as Elliot walked in—pressed shirt, that Carolina drawl ordering coffee, his eyes catching hers before she could duck. He smiled, tentative, and crossed to her table, his presence a jolt she hadn’t braced for.

“Lena,” he said, soft, hovering. “Didn’t expect you here.”

“Same,” she said, closing the pad, her voice tight, the memory of his touch flashing—wrong, brief, but real. “How you been?”

“Good,” he said, sliding into the chair unasked, his coffee steaming between them. “Heard Marcus is out—glad for you.”

“Yeah,” she said, her grip on the pencil whitening. “He’s home—working, settling. Thanks.”

He nodded, leaning in, his voice dropping. “Missed you—at work, after. You okay?”

Her chest tightened, his kindness a mirror to her guilt, and she forced a smile. “I’m good—better. We’re figuring it out.”

“Glad,” he said, sincere, but his eyes lingered, a question she’d cut off weeks ago. “If you ever—”

“No,” she said, sharp, standing fast, the chair scraping. “I can’t—won’t. He’s my life, Elliot. Take care.”

She grabbed her bag, leaving the latte, and walked out, the air hot on her face, his Missed you a burr she shook off. Marcus waited—home, the shop, their bed—and she’d mend it, piece by piece, the edges healing slow but sure.

Marcus tightened the bolt, Darius’s I’m here a start, and felt the rhythm hold—work, Lena, a life reclaimed, edged but his.

The apartment was a warm blur of spice and light when Marcus stepped in, the clock ticking past 7:30 p.m., his hands scrubbed clean but still smelling of the shop—grease, metal, the Ford’s stubborn rust. Three weeks free, and the day had cut deep—Darius’s I froze a shard he’d lodged but not pulled, the wrench’s weight a tether he’d carried home. Lena stood at the counter, chopping onions, her knife a steady rhythm, and she glanced up, her smile soft but searching, her braids spilling loose.

“Hey,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel, stepping toward him, her eyes tracing his—checking, like always, for the cracks three weeks hadn’t fully smoothed. “Ford done?”

“Hey,” he said, dropping his keys, meeting her halfway, his hand brushing her waist, the cotton of her shirt warm under his palm. “Yeah—runs now. Darius helped, sorta.”

She nodded, her grip on the towel tightening, a flicker of that night—her fury at Darius—crossing her face. “Good,” she said, soft, turning back to the stove, a pot simmering with chili, the smell sharp with cumin. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” he said, sinking onto the couch, the cushions soft after the shop’s hard edges. She brought him a bowl, steam curling up, and sat beside him, her own untouched, the quiet stretching—a rhythm they’d built, tender but edged.

He ate, the chili hot and rich, and watched her—hands still, eyes on her lap, the offbeat he’d felt since that first night back. “You’re quiet,” he said, setting the bowl down, his voice low, probing. “Something up?”

She exhaled, slow, and met his gaze, her face raw, the coffee shop flashing—Elliot’s Missed you, her No. “Ran into Elliot today,” she said, steady but soft, her hands twisting the towel. “Midtown, coffee place. He… said he’s glad you’re out.”

Marcus’s chest tightened, the name a burr he hadn’t shaken—three weeks since her tears, her It was once. He leaned forward, his jaw flexing, but kept his voice even. “Yeah? What else?”

“Nothing,” she said, fast, her hand reaching for his, gripping tight. “I shut it down—told him you’re my life, walked out. It’s done, Marcus—I swear it.”

He held her stare, her eyes wet but fierce, and felt it—the hurt, still there, but softer, a piece he could carry. “I believe you,” he said, quiet, his thumb brushing her knuckles, the chili cooling between them. “Just… stings, sometimes.”

“I know,” she whispered, sliding closer, her forehead to his, her breath warm. “I’ll keep showing you—every day, ‘til it don’t.”

He pulled her in, her weight settling against him, and they sat, the chili forgotten, the lamp casting shadows long and soft. “Darius owned it today,” he said, his voice rough against her hair. “Said he froze—scared, not mean. Wants to fix it.”

She pulled back, her eyes narrowing, fierce again. “He should’ve moved then—not now. You deserved more.”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand on her neck, steadying her, him. “He’s trying—shop, me. Ain’t whole, but it’s something.”

She nodded, her fingers threading his, and they leaned back, the couch creaking, the city’s hum faint beyond the walls. The edges were healing—Darius a truce, Elliot a scar—and they felt it, a rhythm forming, cracked but theirs. He kissed her, slow, the taste of chili and her mingling, a claim they’d rebuild, piece by piece.

Lena felt his heartbeat under her palm, steady, real, and let the guilt ease—Elliot’s face fading, her No a line she’d hold. She’d seen him today, faced the mirror again, and Marcus stayed—hurt, yes, but here. Darius’s I froze cut him, a wound she’d salve with dinners, nights, her fight, and they’d mend it, breath by breath, the edges smoothing slow.

Marcus held her, the shop’s ache lifting, her confession a bruise he’d trace but not press. Darius offered work, a start—he’d take it, build it, with her beside him, the porch swing a dream they’d chase. The pieces fit, rough but right, and he breathed, freedom sharper with her, the healing a road they’d walk, together.

They ate the cold chili later, her laugh soft as he grinned, and the night deepened, the edges softer, the pieces settling into place.