Malik stood outside the gallery, coffee in hand, watching the city pass by. It was almost 9 a.m., and Serena still hadn't answered his text.
Just checking in. Want to do lunch today?
He'd sent it over an hour ago, before he left the office to surprise her. She always said she missed spontaneity in their marriage. That everything had become too routine. Too structured.
So this was him—trying.
The early sun cast soft gold across the front windows, filtering through the tall panes like light through cathedral glass. The gallery looked beautiful from the outside. Warm. Elegant. Curated.
Like Serena.
Inside, an intern greeted him with a stuttered, "Mr. Graves! Uh—do you have an appointment?"
He smiled politely. "No, but I'm here to see Serena."
The intern hesitated. "She's… in a meeting."
Malik looked past the front desk, toward the hallway leading to her office. "With who?"
"Landon," the girl said, and quickly added, "It's about the expansion paperwork."
Malik's smile dimmed, but he nodded. "I'll wait."
Ten minutes later, Serena emerged, laughing. That soft, lilting laugh she used when she was amused but wanted to seem effortless about it. The one she used at dinner parties, not with him lately.
Landon followed behind her, too close. His hand brushed her lower back, like it didn't mean anything. But Malik noticed how Serena didn't move away.
She spotted Malik and brightened. "Mal! What are you doing here?"
"I was nearby. Thought we could grab lunch."
Landon's eyes narrowed just slightly, but Serena smiled. "Spontaneous Malik? I'm impressed."
He held out the coffee. "Double shot. Extra cinnamon. Like you used to like."
She took it with a faint pause. "Thanks. That's sweet."
But she didn't drink it.
They sat in a quiet café a block away. She talked about art installations, about the French exhibit, about some investor cocktail hour she wanted him to attend. He nodded along, but something felt off.
She kept checking her phone. Subtle glances, but frequent.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Just gallery stuff," she replied. "The framing company messed up a few pieces. Landon's handling it."
That name again.
He sipped his espresso slowly, studying her. "You've been working with him a lot lately."
Serena didn't miss a beat. "He's efficient. I trust him."
"You didn't trust him two years ago," Malik said softly. "You said he was arrogant and self-serving."
She shrugged. "People grow."
He let it hang in the air, but his stomach tightened.
That night, he made dinner.
Not something catered, not delivery. He cooked—her favorite: seared halibut with citrus glaze and wild rice. A soft jazz record played low in the background. Candles flickered. He poured wine.
She was two hours late.
When she walked in, her heels clacked like apologies. Her lipstick was faded. Her earrings were different from the ones she left in. She paused when she saw the table.
"You cooked?"
"I thought we could have a night in."
Serena hesitated. "I told you—Landon's dinner with the sponsors ran late."
"You did," Malik said quietly, taking a sip of wine.
She walked over, kissed his cheek quickly, and slipped out of her heels. "It smells amazing, babe. I'll just go change."
They ate in relative silence.
He asked about her day, and she answered vaguely. She asked about the zoning meeting, and he gave her more than she wanted. She wasn't really listening.
Halfway through dinner, her phone buzzed. She reached for it instinctively.
He watched her expression shift—just slightly—and then fade back to neutral.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
Serena forced a smile. "Just gallery stuff."
She always said that now. Like the gallery was some living thing—an entity more important than anything else. Even them.
He nodded. "I miss us."
She looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"
"This. You and me. Even a year ago... it felt different. Closer."
Serena reached across the table and took his hand. "Malik. I'm just busy. You know how the season gets."
"I know," he said.
But the ache in his chest didn't ease.
She held his hand a moment longer, then let go to answer another message.
Later that night, Malik lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Serena was beside him, already asleep, her back to him. Her breathing was even, her presence warm.
But the space between them had never felt colder.
He thought about the earrings. The ones she didn't leave home in.
He thought about the lipstick. The slight smudge on her collar.
He thought about how many times he'd made excuses for her. For them.
He still loved her. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was—she didn't seem to notice when he stopped trying to reach her.