"That sounds exhausting."
"It was." He pauses. "But it made me good at adapting."
I don't say anything as the train finally slows for Bedford Avenue. Tom stands, bracing himself against the sway of the car, and extends his hand down to me. I write it off as a purely practical gesture to navigate the jerking train, but as my fingers slip into his, his grip is solidly reassuring. He helps me stand and lets go before we even reach the sliding doors, but my skin holds onto the phantom warmth of his palm.
I keep my eyes carefully fixed forward.
"She's probably stress-cleaning," Tom says as we step out onto the platform.
"Does she do that?"
"When she's scared? She reorganizes everything. Last time her lease was up, she alphabetized her ink inventory." He glances back at me. "Twice."
I follow him up the concrete stairs toward daylight.
The shop is three blocks from the station. The sharp scent of green soap, rubbing alcohol, and stale espresso hits me the second we push through the front door.
It is a beautiful space. Street level with great visibility. Through the glass, I immediately note the exposed brick, the industrial pendant lights, and a waiting area with two mismatched chairs. The walls are covered in framed original artwork. Someone curated every single inch of this room.
Wren is behind the front desk, laptop open, and she is already standing when the bell above the door rings.
Tom crosses the room. They share a quick hug, the real kind, where you can literally see the tension drop out of someone's shoulders the moment their arms go around the other person. Tom pulls back first, his hands lingering on her shoulders to check her face, before she looks past him at me.
"You brought the architect."
"Sam Morgan." I extend my hand. "Nice to meet you."
She shakes it with a firm, assessing grip. "Wren. Tom's told me approximately nothing about you." She releases my hand. "Which means you're important."
"That's not—" Tom starts.
"He goes quiet about things that matter," she says to me, entirely ignoring her brother. "If he's talking about you nonstop, you're background noise. Radio silence means he's paying attention."
Tom looks desperately up at the ceiling.
Sixty seconds in, and I already like her.
"Thirty days," I say, getting straight to business. "And you've been looking at listings."
"Everything is either wrong, too expensive, or available in six months." She drops heavily back into her desk chair. "I've got a broker, but she keeps sending me spaces in neighborhoods where my clients won't follow me."
"Can I see the shop?"
She pauses. "The whole thing?"
Wren looks at Tom. He gives her a subtle shrug, the shrug of someone who has recently learned to stop second-guessing my process.
"Okay," Wren says, standing back up. "Come on."
She walks me through it methodically, from the front waiting area through the curtain to the back. I pull out my tablet and start sketching, asking rapid-fire questions about plumbing minimums and lighting angles.
I don't need to turn around to know Tom is leaning in the doorframe behind us. I can see his reflection in the mirror above Wren's station, his arms crossed as he watches his sister walk me through her setup. Stripped of his corporate armor, he looks younger. The way he is watching me makes the back of my neck prickle. I have to force myself to take a breath before I can draw the next line.
"I know it's not much," Wren says, unconsciously running her hand along the edge of the station countertop. "But I built this over six years. Every client, every piece on these walls... I earned every inch of it."
"It's not about the size," I tell her, keeping my voice perfectly level. "It's about what you built here. And we are going to find you a place to do it again."
Wren is quiet.
