He was silent for a long time. “I’m sorry I’m not a character in one of your books, Elara. I can’t promise a perfect ending. I can only promise I’ll keep showing up for the messy middle.”

The low point came three months later. She was editing a scene where the hero climbs a fire escape to apologize. It was cliché, but effective. She looked out her own window. Finn was in the garden below, not climbing, not shouting. He was just sitting on the bench they’d salvaged, drinking tea from the tin cup, staring at the bare soil where they’d planned to plant roses.

“I was working, Elara. You know that.” He looked at her then, really looked. “You didn’t ask if I was okay.”