AUDEN STEPPED into the cafe like stepping into a memory that had been waiting nearly a decade to ambush her. The same exposed brick walls breathed with conversations she'd once shared at corner tables, the same chalkboard menu promised seasonal drinks that she would never order. She could almost see the ghost of herself at twenty-eight, fumbling over herself and her spilled coffee, in awe with the fact that she had somehow run into a celebrity.

It had only been two days since she'd seen him. Two days that stretched like weeks, each hour marked by his absence. Her heart was already revolting — not the gentle ache of missing someone, but something angrier, more desperate. A mutiny against her own decision to cut contact, against the silence that was simultaneously necessary and unbearable.

The queue moved with the sluggish rhythm of morning ritual, each person clutching their phone against the day's offerings. Auden stared straight ahead, rehearsing her order silently as if this would make the process easier, as if the familiar words could anchor her to something solid. She didn't know why she had settled on coming here — call it self-harm, masochism, or pure nostalgia — but she couldn't help it.

The rational part of her mind whispered accusations: You're torturing yourself. This is pathetic. You're undoing your progress. But the louder voice, the one that had driven her out of bed and across town, insisted this was the only communion she could have with what remained of them. This coffee shop had been their place, not in any official sense, but in the way places become sacred through repetition.

The corner table by the window where he'd make her laugh until her sides ached. The spot at the counter where he'd stood too close while they waited, his shoulder brushing hers every so often to remind her that he was still there. Every surface here held the ghost of their relationship.

Auden missed Cillian, and this seemed like the best space to let herself feel that — to give permission to the grief that had been stalking her. Here, she could remember the particular way he'd stirred his tea, counterclockwise, always, while talking with his free hand. She could recall how, one morning, when he had walked her to work, he'd saved himself from ordering the last blueberry muffin because she had been having a bad start to the day, and how he'd known without asking that she needed an extra shot in her latte. In this space, missing him felt less like weakness and more like discovery, a careful excavation of something that had mattered, that still mattered despite everything that had gone wrong.

She stepped up and ordered to an entirely too-cheery barista whose enthusiasm felt like an assault on her cracking composure. When Auden reached for her wallet, her fingers found only empty space where habit expected the weight of cards and cash. The absence felt disproportionately devastating, a small crisis that threatened to unravel what little pins continued to hold her in place.

It wasn't about the money — she had other cards at home, cash in her car, a dozen ways to solve this minor inconvenience. But in that moment, standing at the counter with the barista's expectant smile beginning to falter, the missing wallet became a symbol of everything else that was missing. Her preparation had failed her. Her control over even the tiniest of details was slipping. The simple act of buying coffee in the place where she'd once been happy had become another reminder of how thoroughly off-course everything had gone.

"Shit," she whispered, "I - I'm -"

Her chest tightened with the pressure of tears she couldn't afford to shed in public, and she wondered if this pilgrimage to their old haunt had been a mistake after all. But even as embarrassment heated her cheeks and she fumbled for an explanation, some part of her felt grateful for the breakdown. It was honest, at least. It matched the chaos inside her, the way missing Cillian had scrambled her sense of order and left her standing in places she didn't belong, wanting things she could not have.

The woman's smile fell, "Everything alright?"

"I'm so sorry," she began to the barista, "I've left my wallet—"

"What were you having?"

The voice came from behind her, warm and unhurried, belonging to someone who seemed untouched by the urgency that seemed to infect coffee shop queues. She turned to find dark eyes studying her with a bemused expression.

He was tall, with mousy hair that caught the light streaming through the tall windows, and wore the kind of understated elegance that suggested European sensibilities — clothes that whispered quality rather than announcing it. There was something about his stillness that made the space around him feel calmer, as if his presence alone could create a pocket of quiet if Auden allowed it.

"Oh, no," she said quickly, though the protest felt automatic rather than genuine. She swallowed harshly against the lump in her throat, feeling her emotions travel into the pit of her stomach. "That's really not—"

"It's just coffee," he smiled, dimples popping. "I insist."

Something in his tone made arguing feel churlish, so she nodded, accepting kindness from a stranger with the fragile gratitude of someone who had recently remembered that the world could still surprise her with gentleness.

Auden flashed him her best convincing smile, before turning to the barista again. "Large americano, extra shot, with oat milk."

The man stepped up next to her. "And I'll have a flat white."

They moved to the pickup counter, Auden's face blazing against the silent shame of being unprepared and needing to be saved. "Thank you. This is... unexpectedly kind."

"It's not a problem," he remarked, entirely unphased. "My entire day would be in shambles if I didn't have caffeine. I couldn't let that be the case for you, too."

When their drinks were placed onto the counter, he reached for hers as well. A chivalrous gesture that struck Auden instantly. He handed her the to-go cup as if it were second nature, their fingers brushing briefly — a moment of contact that felt both accidental and inevitable, warm cardboard and warmer skin creating a circle of heat she hadn't realized her cold fingers craved.

"Are you heading anywhere in particular?" he asked, and there was something in the question that suggested genuine curiosity rather than mere politeness. "You have the look of someone with somewhere important to be."

"A gallery, actually. Just a few blocks from here." She wrapped her hands around the cup, letting its heat seep through her palms. "I own it with a friend. We're probably about to bite off more than we can chew with a new artist."

"That sounds like the best kind of problem to have." His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, "What kind of art do you focus on?"

"Contemporary Irish artists mostly, though we dabble in international pieces when something speaks to us." She found herself relaxing into the conversation, surprised by how good it felt to talk about work rather than focus on her almost very public, downward spiral. "We try to showcase artists who are saying something new, even if they're using old languages to say it."

"That's a beautiful way to put it." He paused, studying her face. There was a flicker of recognition then — as if he somehow realized something she hadn't. But whatever it was, he didn't explain. "I should let you go. I don't want to make you late."

"Thank you again," she smiled once more, lifting the coffee in a small gesture of gratitude. "For this."

The man winked once, and Auden felt her cheeks flush harder. "The pleasure was entirely mine."

Auden left that cafe feeling better than she had when she woke up. She walked the three blocks to the gallery with coffee warming her hands and a stranger's unexpected kindness lingering against her ribs. The morning air carried the scent of autumn's end — leaves composting themselves back into earth, the green smell of things returning to their elements.

The stranger's gesture had been small, almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of her problems, but it had broken something open in her chest. Not the wound that Cillian had left — that remained, would probably always remain in some form — but the harder shell she'd grown around it, the defensive assumption that the world was mostly indifferent to her struggles. Here was evidence to the contrary: proof that kindness still existed in unexpected packages, that her distress was visible and worth addressing, even to someone who owed her nothing.

The gallery exhaled around her as she pushed through the front door. Brigid looked up from the front desk, her copper hair catching the light like spun metal, and immediately focused on Auden's face with the laser attention of someone who had been monitoring emotional weather patterns.

"You look less terrible than you have in days," she observed, closing the appointment book she'd been reviewing. "Did something happen between here and getting coffee?"

"A stranger bought my drink when I forgot my wallet." Auden unwound her scarf, letting it pool over a chair like discarded silk. "Sometimes the world remembers how to be nice."

"Sometimes it does." Brigid's voice carried the neutrality she'd perfected over the past few days, offering support without pressing for details that might not be ready to be shared. "Morrison's assistant called while you were on the way. He's planning to stop by this morning to discuss his father's collection."

The name should have meant something – weeks of correspondence had made it familiar – but Auden's mind was still occupied with dark eyes and unexpected gentleness, with the way a stranger's attention had made her remember she was still capable of surprise.

"Right. The mysteriously charming client." She made her way toward the back office, already mentally preparing for a conversation about logistics and insurance, the practical poetry of moving art through the world. "Any idea what time?"

"Soon, I think." Brigid called out as she slipped into her office. "He seems eager."

Auden shucked off her coat and let it fall like shed skin onto the burgundy velvet sofa in the corner, a splash of winter against wine-dark fabric. She followed its path downward, settling into the cushions. Her exhale was long and intentional, carrying with it the morning's small catastrophe and smaller salvation.

Eyes closed, she began the ritual of return – five breaths to find herself again, to separate what belonged to her from what belonged to the world. Sometimes this was all she needed, this brief communion with her own pulse. Other times it required something more intense, an excavation of feelings buried beneath the day's debris. Today felt somewhere between.

Slowly, her heartbeat found its quieter rhythm, no longer the frantic percussion of panic but something steadier, more sustainable. She checked in with the Cillian-shaped hole in her chest, that ache she'd been carrying like a second heart. It was still there – she hadn't expected it to disappear – but it felt different somehow. Less sharp, perhaps. Less like bleeding.

Maybe it was silly, being so afraid of a coffee shop — four walls and the smell of espresso, nothing more threatening than caffeine and morning pastries. But grief had a way of turning ordinary places into monuments to loss, transforming the mundane into the meaningful through the simple alchemy of memory. To her, surviving it felt monumental. She had walked into the space where they had been happy, where possibility had once lived between them, and she had emerged intact. Bruised, perhaps, but not broken. Changed, but not destroyed.

At this, she opened her eyes and fished out her laptop, balancing it on her knees, as she opened it. She was met with a PowerPoint slide that glowed mockingly: "Art in the Digital Age: Authenticity vs. Accessibility" – a title that felt increasingly hollow the more she stared at it.

What did authenticity mean when everything up to this point had felt like performance? When her own marriage had become an exhibition of happiness, all surface beauty with nothing living underneath? She deleted the sentence she'd been wrestling with and started again, fingers moving restlessly across keys that offered no answers.

The front door chimed with its familiar brass voice, followed by the sound of Brigid's professional warmth greeting someone new. Auden glanced at the clock – she hadn't been here long. Maybe twenty minutes. She strained her ears, listening to the comfortable rhythm of muffled conversation from the front room, the particular cadence of Brigid explaining pieces to someone. Then footsteps approached the office, and the door opened to frame her friend's face, bright with the kind of excitement that usually meant something significant was bound to happen.

"Conner Morrison is here," Brigid announced in a sing-songy voice, her light eyes wide with barely contained energy. "He's asking for you."

The name hit differently this time, carrying what it hadn't possessed twenty minutes earlier.

Auden blinked. "Here? Now? I've barely had time to prepare."

"Yes, now. He's been admiring the Brennan piece by the window." Brigid's fingers moved unconsciously to smooth her hair, a gesture that suggested nervousness disguised as professionalism. "He seems... intense. In a good way. I think."

Auden closed her laptop with more force than necessary and rose from the sofa, immediately regretting the movement as her left leg, cramped from sitting, sent sparks of protest up to her hip. She pressed her palm against the sofa arm for balance, waiting for circulation to return while her heart hammered against her ribs with anticipation she didn't fully understand.

"How do I look?" she asked, though the question felt loaded with more than simple vanity – as if her appearance might determine the outcome of something more than a business meeting.

Brigid's gaze traveled from her face to her feet and back again, cataloging the details. "Beautiful. Tired, but beautiful. Your hair is doing that thing where it's falling out of the bun in a way that looks intentional even though we both know it isn't."

Auden's hands flew to her head, fingers searching for bobby pins that had surrendered to gravity and distraction throughout the morning. Strands of auburn hair had escaped to frame her face in a way that might have looked bohemian if it had been planned, but instead felt more like a symbol of her facade.

"This is fine," she muttered, more to herself than to Brigid. "It's just business."

They made their way through the narrow hallway that connected the office to the main gallery, their footsteps muffled by the vintage Persian runner that had been one of Auden's first purchases when they'd taken over the space. She could hear a man's voice from the front room – it was familiar in a way that made her skin prickle.

When they emerged into the main gallery space, she saw him standing with his back to them, studying the Brennan piece with his phone pressed against his ear. Conner was tall, with mousy hair that curled slightly at his collar, wearing the same black coat and cream sweater that had made him seem so elegantly understated in the coffee shop.

The realization hit her, flooding through her system in a wave of heat and electricity that made her suddenly understand why she knew his voice, why his presence had felt significant even when she'd thought he was just a kind stranger.

When he turned at the sound of their footsteps, his smile was immediate and warm, but there was something else there too – that familiar flicker of recognition she had caught at the coffee shop. The same dark eyes that had studied her still held a spark of amusement, as if he was enjoying a private joke that somehow included her as co-conspirator rather than subject.

"Can I call you back?" Conner said into the phone, though his gaze never left Auden's face. She caught the way his fingers drummed once against his thigh before he stilled them. Seconds later, he nodded, murmuring his goodbyes to whoever was on the other end.

"Well, well," he greeted, extending his hand. "Auden, I presume? Though I have to say, I prefer you without the wallet crisis."

When their hands met, his was soft but dry, fingers longer than she'd expected. His handshake lingered – not quite crossing into inappropriate territory, but long enough that she became hyper aware of the calluses on his palm, the way his thumb traced a barely perceptible line across her knuckles before he released her. The gesture was subtle enough to maintain plausible deniability, deliberate enough to send heat shooting up her arm.

"Conner Morrison," he told her as his hand fell back to his side, "And I have to thank you for making my morning infinitely more interesting."

Behind her, Auden heard Brigid's soft intake of breath and a barely audible "Oh my."

The contrast hit her like whiplash – this easy warmth, this playful confidence. She found herself thinking of Cillian, when they had run into one another again in a very similar fashion, how he'd been distant under the guise of professional courtesy even as his eyes had betrayed something hungrier. How he'd invented reasons to schedule meetings and ultimately extend them, asking detailed questions about provenance he already understood. The way he'd held himself like a man at war with his own desires, attraction and resistance locked in battle.

Conner seemed to have no such problems with that. His attention felt like sunlight – direct, warming, unapologetic.

"I will also admit that I did realize who you were," he continued with a chuckle, his voice carrying just enough intimacy to make her aware they had an audience in Brigid, "And that I'm finding myself remarkably pleased by this coincidence. Though I suspect coincidence might not be the right word."

"What would be the right word?" The question slipped out before Auden could stop it, sounding more breathless than she'd intended.

"Fate?" His smile widened, clearly enjoying the effect he was having. "Divine intervention? Or maybe this was just the universe's way of ensuring I didn't spend the rest of the day thinking about the woman who let me rescue her this morning."

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she was even more aware of Brigid somewhere behind her – could practically feel her friend's delight. When she risked a glance over her shoulder, she found Brigid with her lips slightly parted, a barely contained grin threatening her composure, her eyes bright with the kind of vicarious thrill that came from watching Auden receive any male attention that was beyond her husband's.

"That's quite a line, Mr. Morrison," Auden managed, surprised by how steady her voice sounded as a prickle of sweat began to bud at her temples.

"Conner," He corrected as he stepped slightly closer. She caught the faint smell of his cologne that had been masked by the rich, pungent smell of espresso at the coffee shop. It was clean and bright – like fresh laundry. "And it's only a line if it isn't true."

Auden had no idea what to say to that.

"Well," Auden coughed once, her voice catching slightly as she tried to regain some semblance of professional composure. She gestured around the gallery with hands that weren't quite steady, then let them fall promptly to her sides when she realized she had no idea what she was even gesturing at. "I should apologize. Brigid's been handling most of our correspondence while I've been... navigating some personal stuff."

"Ah." His expression shifted slightly, something that might have been understanding mixed with something that definitely looked like interest. "Well, it seems I've been trying to charm the wrong person through email then." He turned to include Brigid in his smile, but his attention returned immediately to Auden. "Which explains why my usual devastating wit was met with such professional courtesy."

Auden felt her eyebrows raise. "You were trying to charm me through email?"

"Desperately," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle, but his eyes held hers with an intensity that told her that he wasn't entirely joking. "Did it work at all, Brigid? Because I was starting to worry I'd lost my touch entirely when the responses became so one-sided."

Brigid laughed, stepping forward. She was thoroughly enjoying watching her usually composed friend become so flustered. "Oh, you should have heard her reading them," she told Conner with wicked delight. "'Listen to this guy, Brigid. He's either completely full of himself or...' and then she'd trail off looking confused."

"Or?" Conner prompted, his eyebrows raising with obvious amusement as he looked back at Auden.

"Or nothing," Auden replied quickly, shooting Brigid a warning look that only seemed to encourage her friend further.

"Or possibly actually this charming," Brigid finished with a grin that was pure mischief. "She kept the emails, by the way. In a special folder."

"Brigid!" Auden's voice pitched higher with mortification, but Conner's delighted laughter filled the space between them.

"A special folder?" He was clearly enjoying himself immensely now. "What was it called?"

"I am not answering that," Auden said firmly, but she was fighting a smile despite her embarrassment.

"'Interesting Correspondence,'" Brigid supplied helpfully, ignoring Auden's horrified expression. "Which, for Auden, is practically the equivalent of a love letter."

Conner's laughter was genuine, and when he looked at Auden, there was something in his expression that was both triumphant and tender. "I'll take that as a win," he said softly.

She let out a quiet, airy laugh as she found herself studying his face, noting the way his confidence seemed so effortless, so different from what she'd grown accustomed to.

Cillian had been attractive in a more traditional way – sharp-featured, aristocratic, the kind of handsomeness that photographed well for magazine profiles. But he'd approached her like a man who knew he was playing with fire, making excuse after excuse to see her until even Brigid had started making pointed comments about his sudden interest in anything that had to do with art.

Conner was something else entirely. Where Cillian had been all restrained intensity – stolen glances and accidentally-on-purpose touches – Conner seemed perfectly comfortable with his own desires, as if wanting to work with her while also entertaining the idea of wanting her was nothing to apologize for.

"I've seen you before," Brigid suddenly exclaimed, breaking their silent standoff as she pointed at Conner. "I've seen you talk on the news. About the EU trade agreements, wasn't it? And that debate about immigration policy last month?"

Now it was Conner's turn – his cheeks flushed, a sheepish embarrassment that was utterly charming. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away. "You caught me. My agent works quite hard to get me those appearances – books don't necessarily pay the bills, unfortunately."

"You write?" Auden asked, grateful for the change in subject.

He nodded, his self-deprecating grin endearing. "Political commentary, mostly. I much prefer giving talks to uninterested university students who are only listening to me drone on about Europe's political divide because they're getting extra credit. At least they're honest about their lack of enthusiasm."

"I know the feeling," Auden replied. "I'm actually scrambling to create a lecture myself."

"Oh?" Genuine curiosity colored his voice. "What kind of lecture?"

"It's just a guest talk at Trinity in a few weeks." She felt suddenly self-conscious, tucking hair behind her ear defensively. "Art in the digital age. Probably boring for anyone who doesn't spend days thinking about authenticity and reproduction."

"Actually, that sounds fascinating." Conner tilted his head to the side, gazing at her with slightly narrowed eyes. "The intersection of technology and traditional artistic values, especially with NFTs and virtual exhibitions changing everything, is something that needs to be addressed. I'd be interested in checking it out, if you wouldn't mind the company."

The invitation hung between them like an unexpected bridge. Auden felt Brigid's awareness of undercurrents, caught between desire to accept and instinct to retreat. Conner's tone carried the soft suggestion of personal interest disguised as courteous engagement.

"I... well, it's open to the public," she managed, surprised by her fluster, pulse quickening at the thought of him watching her articulate still-forming ideas. "Though I can't promise entertainment."

"I doubt that." His smile was patient, generous rather than demanding. "But we should probably discuss what brought me here. My father's work."

Brigid cleared her throat, head shaking as if she were trying to bring she, too, were trying to bring herself back to reality.  Brigid stepped forward with notebook in hand, ready to capture the details that would determine whether this conversation moved forward into actual collaboration.

"Right, of course." Auden slipped back into professional mode alongside her, appreciative for familiar curatorial territory though acutely aware the shift felt like donning unnecessary armor. "Brigid mentioned logistical concerns about placement and transportation?"

"Among other things." Conner's gaze moved around the gallery space, measuring distances and ceiling heights with a practiced eye. He clearly was used to this sort of planning. "I should probably be more direct about the scope of what we're discussing. The pieces are pretty substantial."

He moved toward the far wall, and as he walked, Auden found herself watching the way he moved – confident, purposeful, taking up space like he belonged wherever he happened to be. When he reached their installation wall, he gestured to indicate an area roughly eight feet by ten feet.

"They're probably about this size," he murmured, "There are twelve canvases total, all approximately that scale."

Auden felt her breath catch. The scale he was describing was museum-quality, the kind of work that transformed rather than simply decorated.

"Twelve pieces that size?" she asked, her mind immediately racing through the complex logistics such an exhibition would require – transportation, installation, the delicate choreography of moving art through the world.

"My father worked big," Morrison explained, and there was something in his voice that carried both pride and grief, the complex emotions of someone who had inherited not just valuable objects but the weight of another person's creative legacy. "He believed art should dominate the space it occupied, not negotiate with it. They're incredible pieces, but they do present certain challenges."

The way he spoke about his father's work suggested these paintings were more valuable than he wanted to let on – they were connections to a person he'd lost, repositories of memory and meaning that couldn't be reduced to market value. The vulnerability in his admission made Auden want to step closer, to offer the kind of understanding that went beyond respectful competence into something more personal.

"That's..." she began, then paused, searching for words that could encompass both the challenges and the significance of what he was proposing. "I mean, we would have to re-arrange this entire space."

"Which is why I think you should see them in person," Conner continued, and there was something in his tone that made the invitation feel less like business and more like an offering of trust. "To understand what we're really discussing. They're currently hanging in my family's estate about an hour outside the city. The room was designed specifically to showcase work of this scale."

Auden found herself nodding before she'd fully processed what she was agreeing to. "That would be..." she started, then caught herself before she could say "wonderful" or "perfect" or any of the words that felt too enthusiastic for what was supposedly a business arrangement. "That would be very... helpful."

Internally, she cringed at herself. Helpful? That's what she settled on?

"Excellent." He turned back to her with a smile that was immediate, and a tone that was pleased. "I'll call you to set up a time. Maybe this weekend?"

"That should work," Brigid replied before Auden could even suggest otherwise. She shot her a glare that was met with a half-assed shrug.

Conner nodded, satisfied, as he moved toward the front door with the same fluid grace she'd noticed in the coffee shop, but he paused halfway there, turning back with an expression that was all mischief.

"You know," he said, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his pants, "I have that reading tonight. From my book on Brexit's cultural aftermath, actually. Riveting stuff about the dissolution of European identity." He paused against his sarcasm. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in coming? I promise the political commentary is better than my flirting, though that's setting the bar fairly low."

The invitation hung between them like a dare, and Auden felt her pulse spike with equal parts terror and excitement. Behind her, she could practically feel Brigid's raised eyebrows burning holes in the back of her skull.

"I..." she began, then found herself thinking of how different this felt from anything she'd experienced before. How straightforward he was being, how unashamed of wanting her company. "Maybe. I don't want to complicate things."

"Complicate things?" Conner clucked his tongue thoughtfully, though his eyes still held the pure invitation. "Auden, I think things got complicated the moment I bought you coffee. I'm just being honest about it."

He straightened, pulling a card from his pocket and offering it to her. "But you're absolutely right. Business first. And then..." he let the pause stretch just long enough, "well, then we'll see what develops."

When their fingers brushed as she took the card, he let the contact linger just a beat too long to be accidental this time. "The reading starts at eight, by the way. Trinity's Samuel Beckett Theatre. Just in case you find yourself unexpectedly free and curious about what I may have to say."

He left then, and has the door closed behind him, the gallery seemed to hold its breath along with it. It was as if the space itself understood that something significant had just occurred. Auden found herself standing in the sudden quiet, surrounded by a room that no longer felt familiar to her, as if Conner's presence had shifted a fundamental piece in the room's emotional memory.

She could feel Brigid watching her.

"Well," Brigid said finally, her voice bright with contained glee. "That was..."

"Don't," Auden warned, but she was fighting a smile.

"I'm just saying," Brigid continued, moving to stand beside her, "when was the last time someone looked at you like that?"

Auden turned to look at her, and for a moment, all her defenses dropped. "This is terrifying," she admitted quietly.

"Good terrifying or bad terrifying?"

Auden looked down at the business card in her hand, at the elegant script of his name, at the way her fingers were still tingling from his touch. She hardly had time to respond when she felt her phone buzz in her back pocket. She answered before she could process who was calling.

"May I speak to Auden O'Donovan?" It was a female's voice, older, entirely disinterested.

"This is her," Auden replied, blinking away the image of Conner poised in the front entrance.

"Hello, this is Sherry calling from Dr. Mauve Bergman's office to confirm your appointment tomorrow at 2:00 PM," The sentiment was almost robotic, as if this exact conversation happened between her and Auden daily. "Mr. Murphy has already confirmed his attendance."

The words seemed to rearrange themselves as she stared at nothing, each one carrying weight that threatened to crush the lightness she'd been carrying since coffee, since the brief possibility that the world may no longer be punishing her.

Cillian had made the appointment. Had actually called the therapist, had actually taken the step she'd demanded as proof that he was serious about change rather than simply wanting her to come home and pretend the past year hadn't happened.

"Okay," Auden heard herself say. "Thank you."

"Everything alright?" Brigid asked when Auden hung up, noting the way all color had drained from Auden's face in the space of a single heartbeat.

Auden stared at the screen for another moment, her thumb hovering over the dial screen as if she could somehow will the conversation away, return to the simpler complexity of Conner's attention and his father's overwhelming paintings. But reality had a way of asserting itself, and she could feel the threads of her actual life settling back onto her shoulders like a familiar coat she'd hoped she wouldn't need to wear again.

"Cillian scheduled the therapy session," she said finally, her voice neutral. She said the words as if they were objects she was handling with tongs rather than sounds emerging from her throat.

"And that's...?" Brigid's question hung unfinished, carrying all the uncertainty that Auden felt, the awareness that progress could feel just as threatening as stagnation when you weren't sure what you were progressing toward.

"I don't know." The honesty felt like defeat and relief. "I honestly don't know."

What she didn't say was that it meant facing him tomorrow in a room with a stranger whose job it was to uncover the buried grievances and resentments that had accumulated between them like sediment at the bottom of a lake. It meant deciding whether the glimpses of their old connection were worth fighting for, or whether they were just phantom limbs of something that had already died.

And now Conner Morrison had walked into the middle of all of it – attractive, interested, offering her the kind of attention that reminded her she was still a woman outside of her roles as wife and mother and keeper of other people's emotional weather. The timing felt both terrible and perfect, like the universe presenting her with options just when she'd convinced herself she had none.

She looked around the gallery – this space that was entirely hers, that partly existed independently from Cillian's success or their history they'd built together. The afternoon light was beginning to slant through the tall windows, casting everything in gold Auden knew was simply gilded.

Whatever happened tomorrow in Dr. Bergman's office, whatever decisions she was forced to make about the direction of her marriage, she still had this. She still had work that mattered and a future that didn't depend on anyone else's choices.

But as she settled back at her laptop a few minutes later, trying to return to thoughts about authenticity in the digital age, she couldn't stop thinking about the way Conner had looked at her – as if she were something worth pursuing rather than something that needed to be fixed. The memory of his attention felt like a door she wasn't sure she should open, but couldn't quite bring herself to close either.

There was no harm in simply peaking around the corner, was there?