The first thing Lena noticed when she woke was the smell of cigarette smoke.
Not fresh—old. Like it had settled into the fabric of her couch hours ago and was only now reaching her through the half-open bedroom door.
She didn't move or call out, just lay there in the dark and listened.
The heard the faint creak of shifting weight and a soft exhale that wasn't quite a sigh.
He was back.
She turned her head toward the window. Rain still streaked the glass, even though the storm had quieted sometime after midnight. Outside, the city blurred into gray and gold, the streetlights smeared by water.
3:47 AM.
Lena pushed herself up slowly, bare feet finding the cold floor. She pulled on the cardigan draped over her chair—his, actually, from two weeks ago when he'd left in a hurry—and walked toward the living room.
He sat in the dark, smoke curling up from his hand, ash balanced perfectly on the edge of her coffee table. He didn't look at her when she appeared in the doorway.
"You're bleeding," she said.
"It's not mine."
His voice was flat. Matter-of-fact, the same tone he'd used when he told her he didn't drink coffee or that he'd be gone for a few days.
Lena stepped closer. His jacket was slung over the arm of the couch, and even in the low light, she could see the dark stains across the sleeve. His hands were clean, though. He always cleaned his hands first.
"Noah."
He finally looked up. His face was tired, but not in the way most people got tired. It was something deeper. Carved in.
"I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't."
She sat down beside him, not touching, just close enough that the heat from his body reached hers. He took another drag, eyes drifting back toward the window.
"Bad night?" she asked.
"They all are."
She didn't ask what he meant, and he didn't explain.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The rain picked up again, drumming softly against the glass. Somewhere down the hall, her radiator clanked to life.
"You should sleep," he said eventually.
"So should you."
"I will."
But he wouldn't. She knew that by now.
Lena leaned back into the couch, pulling her knees up, letting the silence stretch. This was how it always went. He came back. She woke up. They sat like this until the sky started to lighten, until he had to leave again.
She didn't know where he went. Didn't know what he did. Didn't know his last name until three months in, and even then, it was only because she'd seen it on a piece of mail he'd left behind by accident.
*Shen.*
He'd never confirmed it. She'd never asked.
"There's blood on your collar too," she said quietly.
Noah glanced down, jaw tightening. He stubbed out the cigarette and stood, shrugging off his shirt in one smooth motion. The muscles in his back shifted under pale skin, a thin scar running down his shoulder blade.
She'd never asked about that either.
He walked toward her kitchen sink, running the fabric under cold water. The sound of it filled the space between them.
"You don't have to stay," Lena said.
He didn't answer.
"I mean it. If you need to go—"
"I don't."
The water shut off. He wrung out the shirt, threw it over the back of a chair, and stood there for a moment, hands braced against the counter.
"I'm here," he said, quieter now. "That's all."
Lena studied the shape of him in the dark. The tension in his shoulders. The way he never quite relaxed, even here.
"Okay," she said.
He turned, eyes finding hers across the room.
"You should lock your door."
"I did."
"No. You didn't."
She blinked. "I—"
"I walked right in, Lena."
His tone wasn't angry. Just certain. Like he'd already checked.
She frowned, trying to remember. She had locked it. Hadn't she?
"I'll check it in the morning," she said.
"I already locked it."
Of course he had.
Noah crossed back to the couch, sinking down beside her. Closer this time. His hand brushed hers—brief, deliberate—before settling on his knee.
"You paint today?" he asked.
"Some."
"Finish anything?"
"Started something new."
"Can I see it?"
Lena hesitated. "It's not ready."
"That's not what I asked."
She smiled faintly. "Tomorrow."
"I might not be here tomorrow."
"Then the day after."
He almost smiled. Almost.
Instead, he reached for another cigarette, paused, then set the pack down untouched.
"You're trying to quit again," she said.
"No."
"You are."
"I'm just not smoking right now."
"That's called quitting."
"It's called sitting."
This time, she did laugh—soft, barely audible. He glanced at her, something unreadable passing through his expression.
"Go back to bed," he said.
"Not yet."
"Lena—"
"I'm not tired."
He looked at her for a long moment, then sighed and leaned back, letting his head rest against the couch. His eyes closed.
"Then just sit," he murmured.
So she did.
And somewhere between the rain and the silence and the weight of him beside her, Lena realized she didn't care what he did in the hours before he came back to her.
She only cared that he did.
When she woke again, pale morning light was seeping through the curtains.
She was still on the couch, cardigan pulled tight around her shoulders. A blanket she didn't remember getting had been draped over her legs.
Noah was gone.
Lena sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. The apartment felt emptier than it should have—the way it always did after he left. She could still smell the cigarette smoke, faint now, mixing with the scent of rain-soaked air from the cracked window.
His jacket was gone from the couch arm. The shirt he'd rinsed was missing from the chair.
But on the coffee table, beside the ashtray he'd cleaned out, sat a single key.
Lena stared at it.
It wasn't hers. The metal was darker, newer. No keychain, no markings. Just a key, placed deliberately where she'd see it.
She picked it up, turning it over in her palm.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: For the studio door. The lock's broken.
She read it twice. Then a third time.
Her studio was ten blocks away, in a converted warehouse she shared with two other artists. The lock had been sticking for weeks, but she'd been putting off calling the landlord.
She typed back: How did you know it was broken?
No response.
Lena set the phone down, key still in her hand, and looked toward the door. The deadbolt was engaged. Chain lock too.
He'd locked her in before he left.
She stood, crossing to the door, and tested the handle. Secure. Then she noticed something else—a small scuff mark on the doorframe, right by the lock. Fresh. Like someone had forced it.
Her stomach clenched.
I walked right in, Lena.
She pressed her forehead against the door, closing her eyes.
"What are you doing, Noah?" she whispered to the empty room.
---
Lena pushed through the heavy door—newly smooth on its hinges, lock turning easily with the key he'd left—and dropped her bag on the stool by her easel.
Morning light poured through the industrial windows, cutting sharp angles across the concrete floor. Her half-finished canvas sat where she'd left it, dark blues bleeding into black, a figure barely suggested in the shadows.
She'd been working on it for three weeks. Couldn't decide if it was finished or if she was just afraid to keep going.
"You're here early."
Lena turned. Maya stood in the doorway of her corner workspace, coffee in hand, paint already smudged on her forearm.
"Couldn't sleep," Lena said.
"Join the club." Maya took a sip, eyeing her. "You look like hell, by the way."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you ate?"
Lena tried to remember. "Yesterday?"
"That's not an answer." Maya crossed over, setting her mug down on the table cluttered with brushes and paint tubes.
"There's a bagel place two blocks down. I'm going in twenty. You're coming with me."
"I'm fine—"
"Lena."
She looked up. Maya's expression had shifted, concern creeping in around the edges.
"You've been off lately," Maya said in a low voice. "Like, more than usual."
"I'm just working through some stuff."
"Is it a guy?"
Lena's silence was answer enough.
Maya groaned. "It's always a guy. What's he do, investment banking? Tech bro? Musician with commitment issues?"
"Something like that."
"Which one?"
"The commitment issues."
Maya laughed, but it faded when Lena didn't join in. She studied her for a moment, then shook her head.
"Just... be careful, okay? I know I don't know him, but you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're in deeper than you're admitting."
Lena turned back to her canvas, picking up a brush just to have something to do with her hands.
"I'm fine, Maya."
"Yeah." Maya grabbed her coffee, backing toward her space. "That's what everyone says right before they're not."
---
She worked until early afternoon, losing herself in the rhythm of it—brush to canvas, paint to color, shape to shadow. The figure in her painting became clearer. A man, maybe. Or the suggestion of one. Turned away, disappearing into darkness.
She didn't realize she was painting Noah until she'd already finished his shoulders.
Lena stepped back, staring at it.
The door to the studio opened. She didn't turn, assuming it was Maya coming back from lunch.
"I thought you were getting bagels," she said.
No response.
The air shifted, turning cold.
Lena turned slowly.
A man stood in the doorway. Mid-forties, expensive coat, hands in his pockets. He had the kind of face that looked friendly at first glance, until the flatness in his eyes showed.
"Lena He?" he asked.
Every instinct in her body said don't answer.
"Who's asking?"
He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"A friend of Noah's."
Her blood went ice-cold.
"I don't know anyone named Noah."
"No?" He took a step inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. "That's funny. Because he knows you."
Lena's hand tightened around the brush. "I think you have the wrong person."
"I don't think I do." His gaze drifted past her, landing on the canvas. On the half-formed figure in the shadows. "Nice work. Very... atmospheric."
He moved closer, and she stepped back.
"Noah's been hard to find lately," the man continued, casual. Conversational. "Keeps disappearing. Missing check-ins. You know how it is."
"I really don't—"
"But then we found this place." He gestured around the studio. "Lease under your name. Interesting, right? Makes me wonder what else he's been keeping from us."
Lena's heart hammered against her ribs. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head. "Here's the thing, Lena. When someone like Noah goes off script, people get nervous. And when people get nervous, they start looking for dirt."
The word hung in the air between them.
Dirt.
"You should leave," Lena said, voice steadier than she felt.
"I will." He pulled a card from his pocket, setting it on the table beside her paints. "But first, you're going to give him a message."
She didn't move.
"Tell him Marcus is looking for him. Tell him we need to talk about the Riverside job. And tell him..." He paused, eyes sliding back to the canvas. "Tell him it's a shame when pretty things get caught in the crossfire."
Then he turned and walked out, door closing softly behind him.
Lena stood frozen, brush still in her hand, paint dripping onto the floor.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Don't go back to the studio today.
She looked down at the message, then at the card on the table.
Then at the door the man had just walked through.
"Noah," she breathed. "What the hell have you done?"