Ethan’s building didn’t try to be impressive. It was the kind that had survived decades by being useful: scuffed banister, stubborn mailboxes, a stairwell that smelled faintly of detergent and old postcards. Rachel liked it immediately. It felt like a place where life was allowed to happen without rehearsals.
He waited at the door on the third floor with two mugs balanced in one hand and his keys still threaded through his fingers. “Before you accuse me,” he said, “the coffee chose you. I just paid.”
She smiled despite the tightness fluttering under her ribs. “Then I’ll thank the beans.”
Inside, his apartment was all light and evidence. Framed prints lined a gallery wall—a woman laughing under a broken umbrella, a boy mid-jump over a puddle, a conductor’s hand frozen in a bright blur. P
