Chapter 2

She hesitated. "Do you want to come in for a moment? I mean... just for a coffee or something. I'm not exactly in good company right now, but..." His eyes softened. "Sure. I'd like that." He stepped inside, and for a moment, the apartment didn't feel so heavy. Jennifer moved to the kitchen and turned the kettle on. Byron stood near the window, looking around but not talking. He was not the sort who filled silence with useless words, which Jennifer liked very much. "I didn't expect anyone today," she said over her shoulder. "I figured," he said. Once the coffee was ready, they sat together at the kitchen table. She sipped hers slowly, savoring that moment; it felt like the first real comfort she had experienced all day. "So," she said, "how have you been?" Byron shrugged faintly. "Busy. Quiet. Same as always." "You are still at the gallery?" He nodded. "Helping with a new exhibit. It would be your cup of tea. It's all about rebuilding. Broken things made whole again." Jennifer's glance shot up to him, startled. "That's... strangely relevant." Byron held her gaze. "I thought you'd feel that way." There was another pause, but this was not an awkward one. It was a pause of contemplation. "You've changed," he finally said. "Good or bad?" "Both. You've hardened up. But there's still something soft in there." Jennifer swallowed. She hadn't thought he was capable of such honesty. "That softness was what got me hurt." "It was also what made you love well." Her heart clenched. "Maybe," she said, barely above a whisper. Byron set down his cup. "I've been meaning to check on you for some time," he admitted. "I just didn't know whether I should." Jennifer looked at him over now, really looked. His eyes held fatigue, kindness. He was holding a careful but protective gaze; it was nothing like Devlin, who had always looked at her like she was something to possess. Byron looked at her like she was something to comprehend. "Thank you," she told him, and meant it. He nodded and stood up. "I should let you rest." She walked him to the door, feeling strange in wishing his company would linger. He turned back in the hallway as he left her. "I meant what I said," he said, low. "You still have softness. Don't kill it just because someone else couldn't handle it." And with that, he turned and left. Jennifer felt frozen for a long moment before something snapped in her; she was feeling tight in her chest. She turned back into the apartment, her mind awhirl. Then, curiosity made her take a look at the box he'd brought with him. Inside was her old sketchbook. Flipping through the pages slowly, sketches of flowers, faceless figures, and Then she stopped. On the last page, a fairly recent sketch that was not hers depicted her. A drawing of her sleeping, her face relaxed, with sunlight bathing her cheeks in the early hours of the morning. And at the bottom of the page was signed Byron. Jennifer scrutinized it, her heart racing. Her fingers clenched the page; her breath froze in her throat. He had drawn her. When? Why? Before she could fully register it, her phone buzzed. Looking down, Devlin : “We need to talk. I'm outside." Jennifer stared at her phone for almost an hour, to return or not to return? But she didn’t. Not yet. She needed to breathe, to think, to figure out why he had suddenly chosen to reach out the same night that Byron had graced her with his presence. That confused her more than it should have. Byron. His visit had long gone, but it lingered like a light perfume, diffusing about a quiet room like an unspoken word one cannot ignore. She reread that sketch three times before putting the book away and hiding it under her bed. She didn’t want to think anymore. His drawing was of her serene, kind, and sleeping. No, she hadn’t looked like that for months, not even to herself. But Byron had seen it and chosen to draw it. So it mattered. Still, she wouldn’t be the one to reach out. She just followed her normal routine-coffee, a quick breakfast, and the onslaught of emails she hardly read. A soft sweater, some jeans, and her hair tied back in a low bun, before she forced herself to pop outdoors for groceries. Everything, however, just felt wrong. It was late afternoon when he appeared again. She was just putting away a bag of oranges when the doorbell rang. Her stomach flipped, and she hated it for doing so. Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, Jennifer walked toward the door leisurely. This time she avoided the peephole; she somehow already knew who it was. She opened the door. Byron was standing there, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, a paper bag tucked under one arm. He smiled faintly. "Hi again," he said. Jennifer blinked. "Hi. Should I be suspicious? Two days in a row." He chuckled. "Probably." He lifted the paper bag. "Actually, I'm here to drop this. It's from Cara. She asked me to bring it to you." Jennifer tilted her head. "Cara? Cara Mullins?" "Yeah. She was hurrying out the door, something about a family emergency, said this was yours. I didn't ask." Jennifer reached for the bag. "Thanks." Byron hesitated. "Mind if I come in for a minute?" She stared at him for a heartbeat, then nodded and stepped aside. "Sure." He walked in quietly, soft-footed on the floor, and then didn't move far from that spot, standing near the window like last time. The sky looked pale gray outside, the kind of gray promising either rain or nothing at all. Jennifer set the bag on the table but didn't open it. They stood in silence for a moment. "How've you been since yesterday?" he asked kindly.