It started with a knock.
Not the light, rhythmic kind Elias used. Not Eli's hurried tap or the courier's buzz. This knock was measured, firm. The kind that demanded to be answered.
Aria opened the door, and for a moment, her mind blanked.
The woman standing there was striking in a way that made time feel slower. Hair perfectly slicked back, trench coat cinched at the waist, heels too sharp for a casual visit.
"Hi," the woman said, her smile pleasant but not warm. "I'm looking for Elias Ward."
Aria blinked. "He's not here right now. Can I help you?"
The woman looked past her, eyes sweeping the inside like she owned stock in the property. "I'm Brooke. I work with him. Well—used to."
There it was.
Aria's fingers curled slightly around the edge of the door.
Brooke offered a business card smile. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd return a few things he left behind at the firm. And I wanted to see how he's doing. It's been… a while."
Aria didn't move. "You can leave it with me."
Brooke's smile thinned slightly. "Sure." She handed over a small folder and a black sketchpad, then added, like it was an afterthought, "He used to keep this one on his desk. Always said it was his 'anchor'. Guessing that was about his son."
There was something in the way she said son—like it could've easily been wife or ex if the facts had fallen differently.
Aria accepted the items without flinching. "Thanks. I'll let him know you stopped by."
Brooke hesitated. "He talked about you, you know. Not often. But when he did…" Her smile curved. "You were always the one who 'kept him grounded.' Funny, he didn't seem very grounded back then."
"People change," Aria said, her voice quiet but steady.
"Do they?" Brooke mused. "Well, I hope so. For your sake."
And just like that, she turned and walked back to a silver coupe parked half a block away, heels clicking confidently on the pavement.
Aria closed the door slowly, sketchpad in hand.
When Elias came by later that afternoon, Eli was napping on the couch, Thunder tucked under one arm. Aria was in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water.
"Hey," he said, dropping his keys in the bowl.
"You had a visitor," she said without looking up.
He paused. "Oh?"
"Brooke."
His breath caught. Just slightly. "Right. She said she might stop by."
Aria finally turned to look at him. "You knew she was coming?"
"She texted last week. Said she had some stuff of mine from the office."
"She didn't mention that."
Elias ran a hand down his face. "I didn't think it mattered."
"Didn't matter?" Aria's voice was calm, but sharp at the edges. "She stood at our door and said you talked about me like I was some kind of romantic idea. Something you kept on a shelf."
"That's not what I—"
"She called me your 'anchor.'"
"I didn't tell her that to be poetic. I was a mess when I left. You—Eli—this house—you were what I missed. What I regretted. What I still regret."
She let the silence sit for a second. "Did you sleep with her?"
His head jerked up. "No. I didn't."
Aria watched him. "Not even once?"
"No. Never."
He sounded too sure for it to be a lie. But she still had to ask.
"Then what was she?"
"Someone who saw the version of me that didn't have to try too hard. But she never knew me. Not really."
"And I did?"
He stepped closer. "You do."
Aria folded her arms, holding onto herself. "Why didn't you tell me she was coming?"
"Because I knew it would feel like this."
Her throat tightened.
"She didn't mean anything, Aria. Not the way you do. Not the way this does."
Aria gestured to the table, where the sketchpad sat like a silent witness. "She brought this. Said you kept it on your desk."
Elias glanced at it. "It was the first thing I ever drew after Eli was born. I looked at it every day I didn't come home. And every day I wanted to."
"You had all the reminders, and still didn't come back."
His face cracked, just slightly. "I know. I know."
That night, after Elias left—quietly, with a last glance over his shoulder—Aria sat at the table alone.
She opened the sketchpad.
The first page was a drawing of a baby, swaddled in a blanket. Eli. The second page was Aria, half-asleep on the couch, a bottle on the floor next to her foot. The lines were soft. Careful.
Then a page of an empty bed. Then a doorway. Then a skyline was drawn through a hotel window.
It was like flipping through someone else's grief.
And yet, all of it was hers.
She didn't cry. Not right then.
But she closed the sketchpad gently. Like it was breakable.
The next morning, Elias showed up early. Eli was still asleep.
"I won't stay," he said. "I just… I wanted to say I'm sorry."
Aria stood in the doorway, arms crossed, robe pulled tight.
"I'm sorry for letting the past show up at your doorstep. For not warning you. For not making space for your feelings first."
Aria didn't reply.
"I want to be better," he added. "But I know that means sitting in the discomfort, too. Especially the parts I created."
She looked at him then.
Looked.
He was tired. Not just from sleep, but from trying. From holding himself accountable. From not knowing if he was winning or losing this slow, quiet war.
And that, somehow, felt honest.
"I believe you didn't sleep with her," she said at last.
Relief flitted across his face.
"But that doesn't make it easier," she added.
"I know."
"I'm still figuring out what I can live with. What I want back."
Elias nodded. "Take all the time you need."
Aria let him go, closing the door softly behind him.
When she turned around, Eli was in the hallway, Thunder under one arm.
"Was Daddy in trouble?" he asked sleepily.
"No," Aria said, kneeling. "We just had a grown-up talk."
Eli blinked. "Thunder says grown-up talks always make people quiet."
"That's true," she said with a small smile. "But sometimes, they help too."