The center was almost unrecognizable at night. Without the clamor of children, the building felt cavernous, the halls echoing with the faint hum of the heater. Elena sat cross-legged on the floor of the art room, surrounded by scattered poster boards and half-empty markers.
She brushed a strand of hair from her face, smudging blue paint across her cheek without noticing. She was too focused on the flyer in her lap — bold colors, child-drawn hearts, a message that begged for hope.
"Still here?"
She startled at Adrian's voice. He leaned against the doorframe, jacket slung over his shoulder, tie loosened. For once, he didn't look like the polished attorney who walked into the center each week. He looked… tired. Human.
"I could ask you the same," she said, her pulse skipping.
"I had files to finish. Thought I'd check if you'd locked up."
"I'm not done yet."
Adrian stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room. "You've been at this for hours."
"It has to be perfect."
He crouched beside her, picking up one of the discarded posters. A child's drawing of stick figures holding hands stared back at him. His expression softened for just a second, before the mask slid back into place.
"You always drove yourself past exhaustion," he murmured.
Elena froze. The words carried the weight of memory — of late nights in high school, cramming for exams together, Adrian stealing her notes, teasing her until she laughed. Back when laughter came easily.
She forced her eyes back to the poster. "Some things don't change."
"Some things shouldn't," he said quietly.
Their gazes caught, and the silence thickened.
---
The Unexpected Laughter
An hour later, they were both still there — Adrian cutting straight lines with a ruler, Elena sketching borders freehand. The sight of Adrian Hale, meticulous lawyer, bent over a poster board made her smile despite herself.
"You're terrible at this," she teased, eyeing his uneven lettering.
His mouth curved, faintly but undeniably. "You're not much better."
"Excuse me? I taught half this town how to draw rainbows."
"Rainbows don't have six stripes."
"They do in my world."
The banter was light, almost playful. For the first time in years, Elena heard him laugh — low, reluctant, but real. The sound slid under her skin, unsettling and comforting all at once.
She found herself laughing too, the tension between them loosening into something fragile, dangerous.
---
Mira's Interruption
The door banged open. "I knew it," Mira declared, holding up a bag of takeout. "The two of you are allergic to going home at normal hours."
Elena flushed. "We're working."
"Uh-huh." Mira set the bag on the table, eyes twinkling. "Working on avoiding eye contact, maybe. Honestly, the sparks in here could power the whole center."
Adrian shot her a look sharp enough to cut steel. Mira just grinned wider.
"Eat something," she ordered, unpacking boxes. "Then you can go back to brooding in tandem."
---
The Shadow Returns
Later, after Mira left them alone again, Adrian stacked the finished posters into a neat pile. His hands stilled on the last one — a child's drawing of a family, crooked but earnest.
His jaw tightened. He didn't look at Elena when he spoke. "Do you ever regret it?"
Her breath caught. "Regret what?"
He hesitated, then shook his head. "Nothing."
But the air shifted, heavy with everything unspoken. She knew exactly what he hadn't said. And the name she refused to let rise — Daniel — pressed against the edges of her silence.
Elena's throat ached. "Every day," she whispered before she could stop herself.
Adrian looked at her then, sharply, but she turned away, gathering the markers with trembling fingers.
Neither spoke again.