The night started quietly.
Ethan had cooked—something with garlic and too much salt. Jace had cleaned, half-dancing to a playlist of old R&B and punk. For a few hours, they pretended they were fine.
And then the mail arrived.
A thin white envelope.
No return address.
Just his name, printed in serif black.
Ethan opened it.
Inside: a rejection. Again.
This one from a firm he’d interned at during grad school. The note was short. Polite. Empty.
> “We admire your experience but feel your background does not align with our current brand direction.”
His stomach dropped.
He read it three times.
“Something wrong?” Jace asked, rinsing a glass.
Ethan crumpled the letter in his hand. “Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s just—” Ethan turned, voice brittle. “Another job I’m ap
