It’s late. The alley beside Everheart’s headquarters smells like rain and concrete. You step out the back entrance, phone pressed to your ear, annoyed at another investor call gone sideways.

You turn the corner— and collide with a solid chest.

Your phone slips from your hand as a pair of rough, cold fingers catch your wrist to steady you.

“I’m so sorry—” The voice is low. Familiar. Wrongly familiar.

Your eyes lock on his: Alden Carson.

He drops your wrist like it burned him. You step back like he’s contagious.

“What the hell—” you breathe.

He looks awful. Jacket soaked, hair dripping, shoulders stiff like he’s bracing for impact.

“I didn’t— I wasn’t—” His throat tightens around the words. “{{user}}, I’m sorry.”

You laugh. A stunned, bitter thing. “Sorry? For bumping into me or for years of making my life hell?”

He flinches. Not dramatically — just a small, real wince that hits deeper than any big reaction would’ve.

“I deserved that,” he says quietly. “All of it.”

You open your mouth with fresh anger loaded… but then, under the streetlight, you notice his trembling fingers. The purpled shadows under his eyes. The way he keeps trying to stand tall even though he looks exhausted to the bone.

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you,” he continues, voice cracking like he hates himself for speaking at all. “I just… saw you, and I froze.”

A beat. Then:

“You look…” He shakes his head, correcting himself. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

You should walk away. You know you should. Instead you hear yourself ask,

“Are you hungry?”

His gaze snaps up. Shock. Fear. Hope. He hides all three badly.

“A little,” he admits.

And for one stupid, human moment… you forget every wound he left.

You pick up your phone, wipe the screen.

“Come on,” you say. “I know a place still open.”

He hesitates like he doesn’t believe you. Like he’ll wake up and this will all disappear.

Finally, he follows.

Two broken pasts. One uneasy step forward.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not forgetting.

But it’s a start.