Lana’s POV
By the time I reached our apartment, evening had already bruised the sky. New York’s windows were lit like a thousand tiny stages, each a life running its lines, each a story that wasn’t mine. I stood in the hallway with the key in my hand long enough for my fingers to ache, then I turned the lock and stepped inside.
The smell of coffee and linen cleaner, the soft thud of my shoes on the oak floor—everything familiar pressed against me like a memory I didn’t want. Julian sat by the window with a book open in his lap. The lamp carved him out of the dark in gentle lines: rolled sleeves, damp hair, the precise neatness he never had to try for. The page hadn’t turned.
“You’re home,” he said, looking up. His voice was calm, but quiet in the way of a person who’s already braced for
