PART 1

The Seattle drizzle wasn’t just rain; it was a cold, wet sheet of indifference that clung to your skin and soaked right through to your bones. It was the kind of late autumn chill that made your teeth chatter and your phantom limb ache with a dull, electrical throb that no amount of medication could touch.

I stood outside Harbor Brew, shivering. My reflection in the glass door looked like a ghost—pale, soaked, and fragmented. My ponytail had unraveled, plastering wet strands of blonde hair to my cheek. But it wasn’t the cold that had me paralyzed on the sidewalk. It was the crowd inside.

Through the fogged-up glass, I could see them: the happy people. The normal people. Couples holding hands over steaming lattes, students buried in MacBooks, friends laughing with their heads thrown back. It looked like a painting of a world I used to belong to, a world that had evicted me two years ago on a slick highway at 2:00 AM.

Just go home, Harper, the voice in my head whispered. It was a familiar voice, the one that told me to hide my prosthetic leg under baggy sweatpants, the one that said I was too broken to be seen.

I gripped my crutch tighter, my knuckles turning white. My right leg, the flesh-and-blood one, was trembling from the walk. My left leg… well, the carbon fiber and titanium replacement ended just above the knee, and right now, the socket was chafing against my skin, a raw, burning reminder of what I’d lost.

“One coffee,” I muttered to myself, my breath pluming in the icy air. “Just one coffee, Harper. You are twenty-four years old. You are an artist. You are not a monster.”

I pushed the door open. The bell chimed—a cheerful, tinny sound that felt like a spotlight swinging onto me.

The warmth hit me first, smelling of roasted beans and cinnamon. Then came the noise—a hum of chatter that seemed to drop a few decibels as I stepped in. I knew the drill. I knew the look. It’s a specific cocktail of pity and panic. People look at the crutch, then the metal pylon disappearing into my boot, and then they look away, terrified that eye contact might be contagious.

The place was packed. I scanned the room, desperation clawing at my throat. My good leg was screaming for rest. I moved down the narrow aisle, the rubber tip of my crutch squeaking against the hardwood floor. Squeak. Step. Drag. Squeak. Step. Drag.

“Excuse me,” I said to a woman with a large tote bag occupying the empty chair next to her. “Is this seat taken?”

She didn’t even look up from her phone. She just shook her head, a sharp, dismissive jerk. “Saving it.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Okay. Thanks.”

I moved to the next table. A couple. They saw me coming and instinctively slid their cups closer together, erecting a forcefield of exclusivity. They didn’t want the one-legged girl ruining their aesthetic. I felt the burn of it in my chest—hot and humiliating. It wasn’t just that they didn’t want to share a table; it was that they didn’t want to see me. I was a disruption. A reminder of fragility in their perfectly curated Saturday.

I reached the back of the cafe. Panic started to set in. My leg was buckling. I needed to sit now.

Then I saw it.

A table near the window. The best seat in the house. The gray light filtered through the rain-streaked glass, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Sitting there was a man. He looked to be in his early thirties, wearing a charcoal coat that whispered expensive but didn’t scream it. He had dark hair, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes that were currently fixed on a tablet. Opposite him sat a little girl, maybe five or six, swinging her legs—one of which was clad in striped tights—and dunking a croissant into a mug of hot chocolate with the serious concentration of a bomb diffusal expert.

They looked like a closed unit. A fortress of calm.

I hesitated. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Don’t bother them. He looks important. He looks busy.

But then my prosthetic slipped on a wet spot on the floor. I stumbled, catching myself on the back of a nearby chair with a loud clatter. Heads turned. The silence in the room deepened.

I couldn’t stand another second.

I took a breath that tasted like fear and stepped up to their table.

“Excuse me?” My voice came out as a ragged whisper.

The man didn’t look up immediately. He finished typing a sentence, then raised his head.

When his eyes met mine, I braced myself for the dismissal. I waited for the polite “we’re expecting someone” or the annoyed glance at my crutch.

“Can I sit here?” I managed, my voice trembling. “Just for a minute? Please.”

The little girl looked up, her face smeared with chocolate. Her eyes went wide, but not with fear. With delight.

“Yes!” she chirped, beaming.

The man looked at her, then at me. His eyes were a startling shade of hazel, flecked with gold. He didn’t scan my body. He didn’t look at the crutch. He looked right at me.

“Of course,” he said. His voice was deep, steady, and utterly void of the pity I had come to expect.

He stood up immediately—a fluid, gentlemanly motion—and pulled out the empty chair. He moved his tablet and coffee aside, clearing a space.

“Please,” he gestured.

I sank into the chair, relief washing over me so profound it almost made me dizzy. “Thank you,” I breathed. “Thank you so much.”

I tried to adjust my leg, fumbling to angle the knee joint so it wouldn’t jut out into the aisle. It was an awkward, clunky maneuver. I expected him to look away, to give me privacy for my shame.

Instead, he leaned over and gently shifted the small side table, widening the gap. ” plenty of room,” he said softly.

He didn’t stare. He didn’t wince. He just made space.

“Are you okay, lady?” the little girl asked, tilting her head.

I let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Yes, sweetie. I just… I really needed to sit down. Today is a hard day.”

The man nodded, a slow, solemn acknowledgment. “Some days the gravity feels heavier than others.”

I looked at him, surprised. “That’s exactly it.”

“I’m Olive,” the girl announced. She tore off a piece of her croissant and held it out to me with both hands, like an offering to a deity. “You can have some. It’s happy food.”

I blinked, fighting back sudden tears. “Happy food?”

“Yeah. It’s not sad food like broccoli. It’s happy. It makes the sad go away.”

I took the piece of pastry. It was buttery and flaky and still warm. “Thank you, Olive. I think I need some happy food.”

“I’m Adrien,” the man said, extending a hand.

“Harper,” I said, shaking it. His grip was warm and firm.

A server passed, and without a word, Adrien signaled for a fresh cup. When it arrived—a steaming mocha with whipped cream—he slid it toward me.

“I didn’t order—”

“On the house,” he lied smoothly. “Or rather, on the table rent.”

We sat in silence for a while. But it wasn’t the suffocating silence of the other tables. It was companionable. Respectful. The jazz music overhead, the clinking of cups, the rain against the glass—it all blurred into a cozy background hum.

I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my frozen fingers. My sketchbook lay on the table, closed. I traced the grain of the wood with my fingertip.

This table.

The memory hit me like a physical blow to the chest.

“You know,” I whispered, staring into the dark swirl of the coffee. “This table used to be ours.”

Adrien set his tablet down. He gave me his full attention. “Ours?”

“My family,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. I hadn’t spoken about this to anyone in months. “We used to come here every Sunday. My dad loved the light by this window. He said it was the best light in Seattle for reading the paper. My mom… she always ordered a cinnamon roll and complained it was too sweet while she ate every bite.”

I paused, my throat constricting. “And my little brother, Leo. He would sit right where Olive is.”

Olive stopped swinging her legs. She watched me with wide, serious eyes.

“Two years ago today,” I continued, my voice shaking. “We were driving back from a weekend trip to the coast. It was raining, just like this. A driver ran a red light. He was drunk. He T-boned us on the driver’s side.”

I tapped my prosthetic leg. A hollow sound.

“They didn’t make it,” I whispered. “I was the only one who walked away. Well… crawled away.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn’t empty. Adrien didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t say, “Everything happens for a reason” or “They’re in a better place,” or any of the garbage people throw at grief to make it shut up.

“I almost didn’t come today,” I admitted, wiping a rogue tear from my cheek. “I told myself I was over it. That I didn’t need to torture myself by sitting here. But…” I looked up at him, helpless. “I just didn’t want to be alone. Not today.”

Olive stood up. She did it with the abrupt decisiveness of a child. She walked around the table, climbed onto my lap, and wrapped her small arms around my neck.

I stiffened. I wasn’t used to being touched. I was fragile. Breakable.

But she held on tight. She smelled like baby shampoo and chocolate.

“It’s okay to be sad,” she whispered into my ear.

And that was it. The dam broke.

I buried my face in her soft hair and I cried. I cried for my dad’s laugh, for my mom’s cinnamon rolls, for Leo’s missing teeth. I cried for the leg I lost and the life that died on that highway.

I felt a hand on my arm. Steady. Grounding.

I looked up through blurry eyes. Adrien had reached across the table. He wasn’t looking around to see if people were watching. He was looking at me.

“You don’t have to be strong in front of us, Harper,” he said quietly.

“I’m a mess,” I choked out, trying to wipe my face with my sleeve. “I’m sorry. I’m ruining your coffee.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

The world stopped.

It wasn’t a pickup line. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the gravity of a judge delivering a verdict.

“What?” I breathed.

“You’re beautiful,” he repeated. “The way you carried yourself in here. The way you’re fighting just to be here, at this table, remembering them. That is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time. It’s not perfection, Harper. It’s courage.”

I stared at him, stunned. For two years, I had felt like a piece of debris left over from a wreck. Shattered. Ugly. Incomplete.

And this stranger, this man with the kind eyes and the expensive coat, looked at me and saw something whole.

Olive pulled back and patted my cheek. “Uncle Adrien is right. You’re like a princess. But a cool one. Like a warrior princess.”

I let out a wet laugh. “A one-legged warrior princess?”

“The best kind,” Adrien smiled. And god, his smile. It reached his eyes.

We stayed there for another hour. The rain lashed against the window, but I felt warm. For the first time in two years, I didn’t feel like a shadow. I felt… seen.

When it was time to leave, I braced myself for the awkward goodbye. The “nice meeting you” that really means “good luck with your tragic life.”

Adrien stood up and helped me with my coat. His hands lingered on my shoulders for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

“We go for walks by the harbor sometimes,” he said, casually. “The docks are quiet. Good place to breathe. To draw.” He gestured to my sketchbook.

“I…” I hesitated. “I’m not much for walking these days. I’m slow.”

“We’re not in a rush,” he said. “Are we, Olive?”

“Nope! I like looking for crabs!” Olive declared.

Adrien pulled a card from his pocket. It wasn’t a business card. He took a pen and wrote a number on the back.

“If you ever need a seat at a table,” he said, handing it to me. “Or just someone to walk slow with.”

I took the card. My fingers grazed his. A spark, undeniable and terrifying, shot up my arm.

“Thank you, Adrien,” I whispered.

I walked out of Harbor Brew into the rain. But this time, the cold didn’t bite as deep. I clutched the card in my pocket like a lifeline.

Adrien.

I didn’t know it then, but I had just met the man who would rebuild me. And I didn’t know that the storm was far from over. In fact, it was just beginning.

PART 2

The message came on a Tuesday, vibrating against my thigh in the middle of a freelance illustration gig. I was sketching a rabbit for a children’s book, but my mind was miles away, stuck in a coffee shop with a man who had called me beautiful.

“The docks are quiet this time of day. Good place to breathe.”

No signature. None needed.

My thumb hovered over the screen. Don’t go, Harper, the fear whispered. Don’t let him see the reality of you. The way you limp when you’re tired. The way you can’t walk on sand or uneven ground without looking like a broken marionette.

But I typed back: “I’ll meet you there.”

The Seattle harbor smelled of brine and old wood, the wind whipping off the Sound with a bite that made my eyes water. When I saw them—Adrien and Olive—standing near the railing, my chest tightened. He wasn’t wearing the suit today. He was in a thick wool sweater and jeans, looking devastatingly casual.

Olive was busy trying to balance on a curb, arms out like airplane wings. When she saw me, she almost fell over.

“Harper!” she screamed, sprinting toward me.

I braced myself. Usually, kids running at me is a recipe for disaster. My balance is delicate. But Adrien stepped in smoothly, catching her by the back of her jacket just before she collided with my bad leg.

“Easy, rocket,” he murmured, his eyes meeting mine over her head. “Harper has different brakes than we do.”

I smiled, grateful. “Thanks.”

We walked. Or rather, they strolled, and I navigated. The boardwalk was uneven, the planks warped by years of rain and salt. Every step was a calculation. Lift, plant, swing. Lift, plant, swing. I could feel sweat prickling my hairline, the physical effort of keeping up masked by a tight smile.

Adrien didn’t rush. He didn’t offer to carry my bag in that patronizing way some men do. He simply matched his stride to mine, slowing the world down to my pace.

“I looked up your work,” he said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

I nearly tripped. “You what?”

“Your portfolio. It’s online.” He looked out at the gray water. “There was one piece… a girl holding an umbrella, but the rain was falling upside down, rising from the pavement back to the sky. It stayed with me.”

I stopped walking. That drawing was personal. It was about anxiety—the feeling that the natural order of the world is reversed, that the danger is coming from the ground up.

“Most people think it’s just a whimsical fantasy piece,” I said quietly.

“It’s not fantasy,” Adrien said, turning to face me. “It’s survival. It’s about bracing for the storm that comes from below.”

I stared at him. The wind blew a strand of hair across my face, and before I could reach it, he tucked it behind my ear. His fingers brushed my jaw—a ghost of a touch that sent a shockwave straight to my heart.

“You see things, Harper,” he said softly. “Things other people miss.”

We kept walking. The air between us felt charged, heavy with unspoken words. Then, disaster.

My crutch tip hit a patch of slick, wet algae. It slid out from under me.

My center of gravity vanished. I pitched forward, a gasp tearing from my throat. I waited for the impact, for the humiliation of sprawling on the wet wood in front of this perfect man.

But I didn’t hit the deck.

Adrien moved with terrifying speed. He didn’t grab me aggressively; he simply extended his arm, rigid and steady, a railing where there was none. He offered stability, but he let me take it.

I grabbed his forearm, my fingers digging into the wool of his sweater. I swayed, fighting to get my prosthetic back under me.

“I’ve got you,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

I righted myself, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. We were close now. Too close. I could smell him—cedar and rain.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, cheeks burning. “I’m clumsy.”

“You’re not clumsy,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “You’re navigating a world that wasn’t built for you. There’s a difference.”

He didn’t let go of my arm immediately. And for the first time in two years, I didn’t want to pull away.

The weeks that followed were a blur of “almosts.”

We became a trio. A strange, disjointed little family unit. I started joining them on Saturdays while Olive took her ballet class. I’d sit in the waiting room with Adrien, sketching while he answered emails.

One afternoon, he took me to his office at ColTech. It was a glass-and-steel fortress overlooking the city. He was the CEO, a titan of industry, yet he walked me through the lobby like I was the dignitary.

“I need your eyes on something,” he said, pulling up a prototype on a massive screen. “It’s an app for patient recovery communication. Non-verbal cues.”

I looked at the sleek interface. It was beautiful, minimalist, and completely useless for someone in pain.

“The buttons are too small,” I said instinctively. “If you’re on high-dose painkillers, your fine motor skills are garbage. You can’t tap a tiny ‘need water’ icon. You need to be able to mash the screen with a fist.” I hesitated. “Sorry. That was blunt.”

Adrien was staring at me, but not with annoyance. With awe.

“No,” he said, tapping a note on his phone. “That’s brilliant. My design team has been arguing about aesthetics for weeks. None of them thought about the tremors.”

“I’ve lived it,” I said, rubbing my thigh unconsciously.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why your perspective is worth more than their degrees.”

He made me feel valuable. He made me feel competent. For a few weeks, I let myself believe the lie. I let myself believe that Harper Lane, the one-legged illustrator, could fit into the world of Adrien Cole.

But gravity always wins.

It happened on a Tuesday back at Harbor Brew. We were laughing—actually laughing—about something Olive had said about penguins. I had my sketchbook open. Adrien was drinking his black coffee. It felt normal.

Then, a shadow fell over the table.

“Are you two together?”

I looked up. An older woman, well-dressed, with a string of pearls and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, was leaning in. She looked from Adrien to me, and then her gaze dropped to the metal pylon of my leg, visible beneath the table.

“How… sweet,” she cooed. “A man like you, choosing to sit with someone like… her. It’s so charitable.”

The silence that followed was violent.

Adrien’s face went cold. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I just meant,” the woman stammered, realizing her mistake but digging deeper. “It’s good of you. To spend time with the… unfortunate.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. The shame was hot and instant, a physical wave of nausea. Charitable. Unfortunate.

I stood up. Too fast. My chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“Harper, wait,” Adrien said, reaching for me.

“I have to go,” I mumbled, unable to look at him. “I have a deadline.”

I grabbed my crutch and fled. I didn’t walk; I limped as fast as I could, the squeak of the rubber tip sounding like a siren announcing my defect to the room. I felt the eyes of everyone on my back. The charity case. The poor thing.

I didn’t answer his texts that night. Or the next morning.

“Harper, please. Don’t listen to her.”

“Harper, talk to me.”

I couldn’t. The bubble had burst. I was just a girl with a missing leg, and he was a billionaire CEO. The woman was right. It looked like charity. Maybe, deep down, it was.

Two days later, I came home to find a package on my porch.

It was heavy. Wrapped in brown paper.

I dragged it inside and tore it open.

It was a stool. But not just any stool. It was handcrafted from dark walnut, smooth as silk. And it was short—low to the ground.

I stared at it, confused. Then I saw the note.

“I noticed you struggle to take your prosthetic off at night because standard chairs are too high and the bed is too soft to balance on. I built this. The height is custom. It won’t wobble. I know it’s not the same as being understood, but it’s a start. Just sit. Breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”

He built it.

He had watched me. He had noticed the tiny, specific mechanics of my struggle—the way I had to hop on one leg to get unbuckled, the way I winced when I sat on chairs that cut into the back of my residual limb. He hadn’t asked. He had just… solved it.

I sat on the stool. It was perfect. My foot touched the floor flatly. I unbuckled my leg, tears streaming down my face. It was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for me.

I decided to go to him. To thank him. To tell him I was sorry for running.

I went to ColTech the next afternoon. The receptionist knew me now; she waved me through with a smile. “He’s just wrapping up a meeting, honey. Go on back.”

I walked down the plush hallway, my crutch sinking into the carpet. The door to his office was ajar.

I raised my hand to knock, but a voice stopped me. A woman’s voice. Sharp. Confident. The kind of voice that expects to be obeyed.

“I know we had problems, Adrien. But let’s be honest. You and I were power. Together, we looked like the future.”

I froze.

“I’ve changed,” the voice continued. “I’m not asking for a romantic miracle. I’m just saying the world is watching. And you being with someone like… me… again? It makes sense. It elevates you. Especially now, with the IPO coming up.”

There was a silence. I held my breath, pressing myself against the wall.

“This conversation was supposed to be about your startup proposal, Savannah,” Adrien’s voice sounded weary. Guarded.

“It became about us,” she purred. “Think about it. You need a partner, Adrien. Not a project.”

A project.

The word went through me like a bullet.

I didn’t wait for his answer. I couldn’t bear to hear it. If he hesitated—even for a second—it would kill me.

I turned and walked away. I moved as quietly as I could, but inside, I was screaming. She’s right. Savannah. The Ex. The Power Couple. I had seen them in magazines years ago. She was stunning, brilliant, and whole.

I was a project. A “good deed” for the CEO with a heart of gold.

I ghosted him again.

This time, the silence was different. It wasn’t fear; it was resignation. I went back to my small apartment, my small life. I ignored the texts. I ignored the drawings Olive sent me via snail mail—crayon portraits of me and Adrien labeled “THE BEST TEAM.”

I was walking home from the grocery store a week later, struggling with a paper bag that was tearing in the rain, when I heard the click-clack of stilettos.

I knew who it was before I turned around.

Savannah.

She was even more beautiful in person. She wore a trench coat that probably cost more than my car, and she moved with a predatory grace. She crossed the street, heading straight for me.

“Well,” she said, stopping three feet away. Her eyes flicked to my cane, then up to my face. “You must be Harper. I’ve heard… a lot about you.”

“Hi,” I managed, gripping my grocery bag.

She smiled. It was a terrifying expression. Thin, sharp, and utterly cold.

“You’re brave, you know,” she said, her voice dripping with faux-sweetness. “Not everyone could walk into his world and pretend to belong. It takes a lot of… audacity.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” I said, my voice shaking.

Savannah tilted her head. “Listen, honey. He’s a good man. He takes care of people. It’s what he does. He rescues stray dogs, he funds orphanages, and he buys coffee for sad girls in cafes. But you shouldn’t mistake his pity for passion.”

She stepped closer, invading my space.

“I’m back now,” she whispered. “And some shoes are just too hard to fill. You might want to limp back to your own life before you get hurt. Because when Adrien realizes he can’t fix you… he’ll leave. He always chooses power in the end.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned on her heel and walked away, her heels clicking a rhythm of victory on the wet pavement.

I stood there in the rain, the grocery bag splitting open, spilling apples into the gutter.

I watched them roll away, bruised and muddy.

He rescues stray dogs.

I sank down onto the curb, heedless of the wet concrete, and buried my face in my hands. I was done. I couldn’t fight Savannah. I couldn’t fight the world. And I certainly couldn’t fight the truth.

I was just the broken girl at the table. And it was time to leave.

PART 3

The ColTech quarterly shareholder meeting was the kind of event that made the news. It was a spectacle of wealth and power, streamed globally. I wasn’t there, of course. I was sitting on my couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching it on my laptop like a masochist.

The stage was sleek, backlit with the company logo. Adrien sat behind a long table with the board members, looking calm, remote, and devastatingly handsome in a navy suit. He flipped through notes, the consummate professional.

Then, the unexpected happened.

Savannah stood up from the front row.

She wasn’t on the panel. She wasn’t even on the agenda. But she held a microphone, and she commanded the room with the ease of a queen addressing her subjects.

“I know we’re here to talk numbers,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, echoing through my laptop speakers. “But I think transparency matters. Especially for a company built on trust.”

The room went deadly silent. Adrien stopped flipping pages. He looked up, his expression unreadable.

“Some of you have heard rumors,” Savannah continued, smiling that thin, terrifying smile. “And I want to confirm them. Adrien and I… we’ve been talking. And after everything—the history, the partnership—we’ve decided to give things another chance. We believe that stability in leadership starts with stability at home.”

My heart stopped. The air left my lungs.

She was doing it. She was claiming him. Publicly. Trapping him in a narrative of power and reconciliation that the shareholders would eat up with a spoon. It was brilliant. It was checkmate.

I went to close the laptop. I couldn’t watch him nod. I couldn’t watch him accept the “logic” of their union.

But then, Adrien stood up.

He didn’t look at Savannah. He adjusted his microphone. The feedback screech was the only sound in the cavernous hall.

“I appreciate Ms. Rivers’ enthusiasm,” he said, his voice deep and cutting through the tension like a knife. “But I need to correct the record.”

He looked directly into the camera. It felt like he was looking into my living room.

“I am not getting back together with Savannah,” he said. The bluntness of it made the audience gasp.

Savannah’s smile faltered.

“And more importantly,” Adrien continued, his voice softening, “I want it to be clear who holds my heart. Because Ms. Rivers is right about one thing: transparency matters.”

He took a breath. He looked terrified. And determined.

“I am in love with a woman who sat across from me in a crowded cafe and whispered, ‘Can I sit here just for a minute?’”

I dropped my tea. The mug shattered on the floor, hot liquid splashing my prosthetic, but I didn’t move.

“I love a woman who lost everything—her family, her leg, her future—and still finds a way to be kind to strangers,” Adrien said. His voice cracked, just a little. “A woman who paints the world more beautifully than anyone I’ve ever known because she knows what it looks like when it’s broken.”

He paused. The room was paralyzed.

“I love a blonde illustrator named Harper Lane,” he announced. “And she is not a project. She is not a charity case. She is the strongest person I have ever met. And if this board wants a leader who understands resilience, they should be looking at her, not me.”

He looked at Savannah, who was frozen, pale with shock.

“My personal life is not a branding strategy,” he said. “And my heart is not up for negotiation.”

He walked off the stage.

He didn’t wait for applause. He didn’t wait for the fallout. He just walked out.

I sat there, shaking. The feed cut to a confused news anchor, but I was already scrambling. I grabbed my crutch. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I had to find him.

I didn’t have to go far.

Forty minutes later, a pounding on my door.

It was pouring rain again. Seattle, true to form.

I opened the door.

Adrien stood there. He was soaked. His expensive suit was ruined. His hair was plastered to his forehead. He was shivering, his chest heaving as if he’d run the entire way.

“Adrien,” I breathed.

“I said it,” he gasped, water dripping from his nose. “I said it to the whole world. Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” I whispered, clutching the door frame. “You’re crazy. You just tanked your stock. You just humiliated Savannah.”

“I don’t care,” he said, stepping into the entryway. He didn’t touch me yet. He just stared at me with a hunger that terrified and thrilled me. “I don’t care about the stock. I don’t care about Savannah. I care that you think you’re a burden. I care that you think you’re a ‘project.’”

He took a step closer. The water from his coat pooled on my floor.

“You are not a burden, Harper,” he said, his voice rough. “You are a gift. You are the only real thing in a life full of fake smiles and balance sheets. You saved me that day in the cafe. I was drowning in noise, and you just… sat there. And for a minute, the world made sense.”

“I’m scared,” I admitted, the tears finally spilling over. “I’m broken, Adrien. I’m not whole.”

“None of us are whole!” he shouted, then lowered his voice, stepping right up to me. “We’re all just trying not to fall apart. But I’d rather be broken with you than whole without you.”

He reached out and cupped my face. His hands were freezing, but his touch burned.

“Let me sit with you,” he whispered. “For a lifetime. Please.”

I let go of the crutch. It clattered to the floor. I wrapped my arms around his soaked neck and pulled him down.

He kissed me. It wasn’t a gentle, movie-star kiss. It was desperate. It tasted of rain and coffee and salvation. It was the kiss of two people who had finally found the shore after years of treading water.

We didn’t fix everything overnight. That’s not how life works.

But we started.

Two weeks later, Adrien drove me to a building downtown. It was a gallery.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, adjusting my prosthetic.

“Just come inside,” he said, grinning.

We walked in. The walls were covered in murals. Bright, vibrant, chaotic, beautiful murals.

“This is the ‘Art for Impact’ initiative,” Adrien explained. “It’s a new division of ColTech. We’re funding artists to design therapeutic environments for hospitals. Recovery rooms. waiting areas. Places where people are scared.”

He turned to me.

“I want you to lead it.”

I stared at him. “Me?”

“You,” he said firmly. “You drew a tree with a broken branch that bloomed. Do you remember?”

I nodded, throat tight.

“We put that image in the children’s ward at Seattle Grace last week,” he said. “A nurse called me. She said a little boy with a spinal injury looked at it and said, ‘Look, Mom. It’s still growing.’”

He took my hand. “You did that. Not me. You.”

I took the job.

And I worked. I poured every ounce of my pain, my grief, and my hope into those walls. I painted rain that fell upside down. I painted lions with three legs. I painted tables where everyone had a seat.

But there was one more thing we had to do.

One rainy Saturday, Adrien drove us back to Harbor Brew.

It looked exactly the same. The steam, the noise, the bell chiming.

But this time, I didn’t hesitate at the door. I didn’t look for the judgmental eyes. I walked in, my head high, Adrien’s hand firmly in mine. Olive skipped ahead of us, holding a sign she had made herself.

We walked to the back. To our table.

It was empty. A “Reserved” sign sat on it.

We sat down. Olive scrambled into her chair.

“I have a question!” Olive announced, standing up on her chair.

The cafe went quiet. People turned. Some recognized Adrien from the news. Some just saw a cute kid.

Olive held up her sign. It was drawn in crayon, messy and colorful.

It read: CAN YOU SIT WITH US FOREVER?

I looked at Adrien. He wasn’t looking at the sign. He was sliding a small box across the table.

It wasn’t a diamond. It was a ring made of rose gold, twisted like a vine, with a small, rough-cut sapphire in the center.

“It’s not perfect,” he said softly. “It’s got flaws. Inclusions. But that’s what makes it real.”

He didn’t kneel. We were sitting. Just like the first time.

“Harper,” he said. “Will you sit with us? Not just for a minute. But for all the minutes?”

I looked at the ring. I looked at Olive, who was bouncing with excitement. I looked at the table where I had cried for my dead family and found a new one.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“YES!” Olive screamed.

The cafe erupted. Real applause this time. Not polite golf claps, but cheers. The barista woo-hooed. The grumpy woman from months ago was gone.

Adrien slid the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.

“You gave me a chair that day,” I said, wiping my eyes.

“No,” he smiled, leaning across the table to kiss my forehead. “You gave us a home.”

Outside, the rain finally stopped. The clouds broke, just a little, letting a single beam of sunlight hit the wet pavement.

And for the first time in forever, I wasn’t just surviving the storm. I was dancing in it.

THE END.