It had been a week.
Seven long, aching days since Theo left home. Lena had waited, at first, expecting him to return with apologies, a suitcase, or at least a text. But all she got was silence.
No late-night keys turning in the lock. No footsteps on the stairs. Just absence—sharp and loud.
She tried calling. Once. Twice. Twelve times.
Nothing.
By the eighth day, she broke down and left a voicemail.
"Theo, it's me. I—I don't even know what to say anymore. But I miss you. And I'm scared. Please… talk to me."
She hung up, clutching the phone to her chest. If she could just see him. Just look him in the eyes. Maybe then she could decide whether what they had was still worth saving.
That night, she stayed in bed longer than usual, half-hoping she'd wake to the sound of the front door opening.
But there was no sound.
Only memory.
---
Elsewhere, across the city, Theo sat alone in a hotel room.
He hadn't shaved. His eyes were red from too much thinking, too much guilt.
He had listened to her voicemail three times. Her voice cracked in the middle, and it broke something in him every time.
He wanted to run to her. Fall at her feet. Beg.
But he couldn't shake the memory of her face the night he told her the truth.
He hadn't even slept with the woman—God, no—but the fact that he'd let someone else in, even for one night, meant everything they'd built was no longer clean. No longer sacred.
"I destroyed us," he muttered aloud.
Still, her voice haunted him. "I miss you."
Could that mean she still wanted him?
---
Two days later, Lena sat in the bookstore, folding a new shipment of bookmarks when the doorbell chimed.
Daniel.
He looked crisp, charming as ever, though less polished than usual. He carried two paper cups of coffee.
"I was in the neighborhood," he said with a smile. "Thought you might want something warm."
She didn't say no.
They sat across from each other, leaning against the poetry shelves.
"I was worried you wouldn't call," he said gently.
"I thought about it," she admitted. "I almost did."
Daniel studied her. "You're still in love with him."
Lena nodded. "It's just… complicated."
"I'm not trying to make things messier," he said. "But if you ever need a friend—or something more—I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested."
She looked down at her cup, heat rising to her face.
Daniel leaned in slightly. "You don't have to answer. Just… know I'm around."
Lena's heart twisted. There was a strange comfort in Daniel's presence—he saw her, wanted her, but didn't carry the weight of shared memories. With him, she didn't feel broken.
But her soul still belonged somewhere else.
---
That evening, she wrote a letter to Theo:
"I don't know what you're thinking or feeling. But I need to see you. To talk without screaming. To remember what we promised when we stood at the altar. You hurt me more than I ever thought possible. But I love you. And that's not something I can turn off. If you still want this, even a little, come home. Just come home."
She didn't send it.
She left it by the door.
Hoping, just maybe, he'd walk through and find it.
Theo saw her message.
He read it twice.
The words blurred through the fog in his head. The pain. The shame. The belief that he didn't deserve her love anymore. He wanted to respond—but fear held him in place.
What if she looked into his eyes and saw someone she could never trust again?
So he stayed silent.
And in that silence, Lena shattered.
---
The day dragged, slow and cold. The sky hung grey over the city, and the bookstore—once her place of solace—felt too quiet, too hollow. She had always thought pain made her stronger. But today, it just made her feel invisible.
She stared at the unopened letter on the console, still untouched.
Her chest ached.
Without thinking much about it, she picked up her phone.
Lena: Still up for that drink?
Daniel replied almost instantly.
Daniel: Say when and where. I'll be there.
---
The bar they met in was low-lit and warm, tucked into a corner of the city like a secret. They laughed more than they expected to—about books, about awkward first dates, about how grief comes in waves when you least expect it.
Daniel didn't press her for answers.
He just listened.
And maybe that's why she let herself lean into him when they stepped out into the cold night air. Why she didn't flinch when he reached for her hand. Why she let him kiss her, slow and searching, beneath the streetlamp.
Maybe that's why, later, when he whispered, "Come home with me," she said yes.
Daniel's apartment was soft with dim lights and scent of coffee lingering in the air. Everything felt suspended in a quiet dream.
Lena didn't want love that night.
She didn't want promises or conversations.
She wanted to feel something other than forgotten.
Their connection wasn't wild or rushed. It was deep, drawn from two lonely people reaching for warmth in the wreckage of their lives.
When his hands moved across her skin, she didn't stop to think. She let herself get lost in the moment, the craving, the heat.
They didn't talk about protection.
They didn't talk at all.
And afterward, she lay beside him in the dark, curled under his arm, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.
Daniel noticed. He pulled her closer. Said nothing.
Because they both knew what the silence meant.
She wasn't healed.
She wasn't whole.
But for one night, she didn't feel alone.
---
By morning, Lena sat at the edge of the bed, staring out at the city skyline. She felt raw. Hollow. Guilty and alive in the same breath.
Daniel brought her coffee and kissed her cheek. "I hope you don't regret it."
She looked at him. Her voice low.
"I don't know what I feel anymore."
The day after their night together, Lena tried to return to normal.
She opened the bookstore like always, brewed her favorite vanilla cinnamon tea, and arranged the new poetry section that had just arrived. But her hands trembled as she placed each book.
Her mind wasn't there.
It was with him.
She tried to drown the memory in work—but the way Daniel had held her, touched her, seen her, clung like heat to her skin. It wasn't just desire. It was the way he made her feel wanted. Not out of duty or guilt—but pure, unfiltered hunger.
Theo hadn't looked at her like that in months. Maybe years.
Her thoughts spiraled. She felt confused. Guilty. But mostly… she felt alive.
By mid-afternoon, she gave up the fight.
She flipped the sign to Closed, grabbed her coat, and walked straight to Daniel's place. Her pulse pounded with every step—faster, deeper, like something in her chest was finally waking up.
When she reached his door, she didn't hesitate.
She knocked.
Once.
The door opened.
And the moment she saw him, everything broke loose.
"Lena," he said, surprised, shirt halfway unbuttoned like he hadn't expected anyone.
She didn't answer.
She stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him to her.
Their lips collided—hard, breathless, wild.
No pleasantries. No hesitation.
She kissed him like a woman starved. Like someone who had gone too long being untouched, unloved, and now finally had permission to feel again.
Daniel wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off the ground slightly as he backed them into the apartment. They barely made it past the hallway before clothes started falling. Her coat. His shirt. Her sweater.
It was rougher this time. Urgent. Unapologetic.
She didn't care about the couch or the floor. Didn't care about the cold tiles or city lights glowing through the window.
All she cared about was the way he made her feel.
Needed.
Seen.
Loved, in a way that burned the edges of her grief.
And he gave it to her—completely. Again and again. Like he'd been waiting just as long.
When it was over, they collapsed together, tangled in breath and sweat and silence.
She lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, her fingers resting on his stomach.
And for the first time in weeks, Lena felt something she hadn't felt in a long time:
She felt wanted.
But beneath the afterglow, a question gnawed at her chest. What's now ?
She cared less of the outcome of her relationship with Daniel