For the next month, Minho worked with Ava, ran with his mystery man, and exchanged drawings with his upstairs neighbor. He had to admit, he hadn't felt this good about his life in a long time. When he left Chicago 8 months ago he had hoped to leave what had happened there behind him, but he knew he hadn't. It still cast a shadow over everything.

He and his running partner had yet to speak to each other. He knew that it wasn't a coincidence that they kept running into each other in the lobby.

He had toyed with the idea of actually attempting to engage the other man in conversation, but he was afraid to break the spell of harmony and calm that settled over them both as they ran.

As for his upstairs pen pal, they began to pick up bits and pieces of each other through their little notes. One day curiosity overtook him and he asked, along with a drawing of his cat holding out his front paws in question, "How did you learn to draw like that?"

Minho didn't hear back for a few days and he was certain that he had offended the man until he arrived home from his final meeting with Ava and their publishers to see another note hanging on the door. This particular drawing had Minho standing at his door gaping.

While his neighbor's previous drawings had been more or less cartoon like, this was much more…well more. It was a story drawn in panels like a comic book. The level of detail was almost photographic, but it had been purposely blurred slightly in some places in order to draw focus where he wanted it.

The first panel featured a small boy being scolded for drawing in class. The next one was an older boy with an art school application on his desk. The next one was of the same boy shaking hands with an older Hispanic man who was saying "Welcome to WICKD Comics." The fourth and final was him hunched over a table, pencil in hand. A small rectangle in the corner read "Practice, my friend. Practice."

Minho grinned and walked into his apartment, suddenly desperate to change out of this suit and draw, purely for fun. He quickly changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and began to absently draw while the TV played softly in the background.

Over the next two weeks, Thomas continued to trade drawings with his downstairs neighbor and go on his morning runs with his silent company. He worked and walked his dog.

He had even fielded many calls from his sister informing him of her on- going wedding plans, which he only really had a passing interest in. He thought it was another such call when his phone rang one foggy Thursday morning.

"If this is about flowers or seating charts I don't want to hear about it." He said instead of a greeting.

"Huh?" came a decidedly male voice from the other end of the line.

"Jorge?" he said in bewilderment. "Sorry. I thought you were my sister."

"Never heard that before." Jorge said with a laugh.

"What's up." Thomas said, now embarrassed and ready to change the subject.

"I have some good news for you and your team." Jorge said. "I'd like to take you guys out to dinner this evening and tell you all at once."

"Sounds great." Thomas said. "Just text me the address and I'll meet you guys there."

"Will do." Jorge said and hung up without another word. Thomas rolled his eyes. He could never remember his boss ever ending a conversation properly.

That night he sat at the table with his team, Chuck, Alby, Gally, and Jorge.

"A toast." Jorge said suddenly, raising his glass. "To the members of WICKD's upcoming San Diego ComicCon!" he said the last with a sly look in his eye and waited for the announcement to sink in.

One by one the four other men smiled slowly. And then they all began to talk at once. Jorge allowed them to settle down somewhat before he spoke again.

"You boys have been working really hard and it shows in your work. This book was supposed to be a limited run and this is our second year. To Team Darkling!" he said and they all clinked their glasses together hard enough to slosh champagne all over the table.

Thomas stumbled back into his apartment around midnight, humming to himself. he dropped into his desk chair and began to draw absentmindedly on a piece of paper. When he was done he smiled at the result and realized he had drawn another note to his neighbor.

Seized with the kind of decision making that happens after 3 glasses of champagne and several shots of tequila (he didn't remember exactly how many shots of tequila but he was surprised he was standing right now) he headed upstairs to deliver his note.

He finally made it in front of his neighbor's door and squinted at the little clip that they had both stuck on their doors for this purpose. As he stood there, leaning slightly forward, squinting, unexpectedly fell forward on the door with a loud thump, causing him to giggle.

He looked down at the note in his hand and refocused on his task. Just as he finally remembered how to work the clip, his hand went through the open space where the door had been, shoving the drawing into the face of his neighbor.

He giggled again at the sight of spiked black hair poking out over top of the paper. Then he lowered it and gasped.

"YOU!" they both said in unison. Standing before Thomas was the man he had been running with every morning for the past few weeks.

"You're the artist!" Minho said. "And the runner!"

"Yep!" Thomas said a little too loudly. His ears turned pink. This man really was exceptionally cute and he was so drunk. He saw the other man wrinkle his nose slightly, probably at his breath, which must reek.

"Small world." Minho said, sticking his hands in his pockets as they looked at each other awkwardly. The other man wasn't very steady. Judging by that and his breath, Minho would say he was very drunk.

"I'm Thomas." He said loudly, making Minho jump.

"Minho." He said much more softly, offering his hand. Thomas took it and nearly stumbled again.

"Maybe we should go inside." Minho said and walked back into his apartment, waiting for Thomas to follow. When he turned around he gestured to the note in Thomas's hand. "Is that for me?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah." Thomas said, handing it over. He felt suddenly embarrassed about his drawing and he wasn't sure why.

He continued to avert his eyes while Minho examined the drawing, sneaking glances every now and then at his face. When he was done, he looked up at Thomas and smiled. "It seems like congratulations are in order." He said. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, Thomas noitced.

"Yeah, I guess." Thomas said to his shoes.

"You really are an extraordinary artist." Minho said. "You deserve it."

"Thanks." Thomas said. "You're not so bad yourself. I used to read Nate the Spy to my nephew. Well, he's not really my nephew. I don't have any yet. He's my friend Alby's kid…" he realized he was rambling. "Anyway, the illustrations are amazing."

"Thank you." Minho said, then they fell into silence again for several minutes.

"I should probably go." Thomas said. "Sleep it off. I'm not usually drunk." He added the last as an afterthought.

"Of course." Minho said and lead him back to the door. "Goodnight." He said softly.

"Goodnight." Thomas said and left, heading back downstairs feeling more sober than he did when he went up.