Orien sits slouched at the glowing conference table, dark curls a wild halo, shirt sleeves rumpled and buttons mismatched in his rush. Under the bruised light of dawn, the slick code-stained skin of his hands trembles as he stares at them—he has barely slept. Selene watches him from the doorway, hair a tumble of night, faded hoodie unzipped over a clinging black tank. Her boots leave faint scuffs across the linoleum as she steps closer, hesitation flickering in the set of her jaw.

She says his name so quietly he almost misses it. He lifts his face, eyes still edged with last night’s storm. She’s holding two mugs—cheap, chipped, filled with bitter rescue—and she presses one into his palm with a shy, crooked smile. Her knuckles brush his, a pulse of electricity in the hush.

He tries a joke—something self-deprecating about sleepless coders and unkillable bugs. Selene laughs, too loud, and then bites her lip, eyes darting to his mouth. Her expression melts, raw and unguarded. “You okay?” she asks, softer. Orien nods, but there’s a quiver in his lip, vulnerability clinging to him like sweat. “I am, now,” he says, voice wobbly, and Selene’s laugh softens into something aching.

She slips into the chair beside him. Their knees brush. The contact lingers, neither pulling away. “Lysa?” she says, barely above a whisper. Orien’s throat works, Adam’s apple bobbing. For a moment, guilt and memory dance across his eyes—but he reaches for Selene’s hand, threading his fingers through hers, grounding himself in her warmth.

The door bangs. Marin steps in—sharp suit, bold brows, eyes that miss nothing. They appraise the pair—hands tangled, faces flushed with hope and residual heartbreak. Marin’s lips tilt in a secretive, catlike smile. “Time’s up,” they murmur, then: “Let’s make this official.” In the boardroom beyond, Jorel’s barest silhouette vanishes with his arrogance and plans. Selene squeezes Orien’s hand, relief and anticipation warring in her gaze. Marin is efficient, merciless, their words cutting but not cruel. Jorel’s shouts echo in the hallway; Lysa stands like glass behind it all, brittle but unbroken, dark hair pulled back, charcoal suit immaculate—a single button missing.

Orien meets Lysa’s eyes across the room. The years between them pool in the space; apology, longing, and the final ache of goodbye shimmer in the silence. Lysa’s eyes, rimmed in tired kohl, glitter with unshed tears. “You should go,” Orien manages, voice trembling. Lysa’s lips part in protest, then close; she nods, accepting the loss. She lingers a moment longer, fingers clutching the seam of her trousers, knuckles whitening. “I did love you,” she confesses, near-silent. Selene watches, wary—her insecurity laid bare before the woman who broke him.

Lysa crosses the office, heels echoing on tile. She pauses by Selene, searching her face—maybe for blame, maybe for absolution. “Take care of him,” she finally murmurs. Selene nods. Her hand tightens in Orien’s, but her jaw sets—a stubborn promise. Lysa leaves, swallowing her pride, her silhouette swallowed by the gray Berlin dawn. Alone now. Free, but changed.

A quiet settles over the team’s fragments. Marin closes their laptop with finality, nods, and withdraws—one last look of approval. Orien turns to Selene, all battered hope and raw joy. She runs a thumb over his knuckles, eyes shining with unshed tears, then tugs him into a standing embrace. Their bodies fit in a way that feels inevitable; her lips search his, tentative, then hungry. Orien drops his worries, hands at her waist, breath mingling with hers. “Don’t run,” he whispers into her hair. “Never,” Selene breathes—fragile vow.

They claim the empty office as their own—desks abandoned, sun rising beyond the city glass. Laughter and disbelief bubble between kisses. Soon it’s hands untangling hoodies, shy touches growing bolder, skin meeting skin under fluorescent glow. Selene’s laughter dissolves into tears; Orien kisses them away, worshipping the places grief had carved in her. “You saved me,” he murmurs, voice breaking. Her forehead presses to his, trembling with hope.

Later, they sit entangled among cables and code-spattered hoodies, hands still linked beneath the table. Marin’s shadow flickers past the glass—gone, now, with secrets left behind. Orien studies Selene’s face, memorizing every line as if he’s learned a new language. Selene rests her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes, pulse finally at peace.

Somewhere outside, Lysa’s heels fade down the street. Her mask has dropped, her eyes turned inward—maybe searching for forgiveness, maybe for home. The sun lifts, pale and unsteady, over everything broken and beginning again. In the hush, Orien and Selene press their hands together—promise fragile, but strong enough for morning.