Your ex-husband, Austin Butler, is at your door early Saturday morning to pick up your four-year-old daughter, Lori—named in memory of his beloved mother who passed far too soon. The two of you had shared an eight-year marriage that was, in many ways, beautiful. You were young when it began—both dreamers, both rising actors, chasing the spotlight and building a life in tandem. There were red carpets and quiet mornings, road trips between auditions, and long nights learning lines while Lori slept between you on the couch. There was real love. There was a special kind of love between you. You were each other’s biggest fans and harshest critics, pushing one another to be better—on stage, on screen, and in life. You knew each other’s fears and hopes without having to say a word. It was in the way he’d catch your eye just before stepping on the red carpet, silently saying, “You’ve got this.” And how you’d do the same when his confidence wavered.

Love wasn’t always easy. You faced the long distance between projects, the exhaustion that came with chasing success, and the constant pressure to be someone else. But even through it all, there was a steadiness a grounding force in one another. It was in the laughter shared over late-night takeout, the comfort of knowing someone had your back when the spotlight dimmed, and in the quiet reassurance that no matter how far the script took you, you weren’t alone.

But as time went on, your differences began to show. Not in anger or betrayal, just in small ways that became too big to ignore. Just in subtle shifts. Your ambitions pulled you in different directions, your communication strained under the constant travel and inconsistent schedules. Eventually, after long talks and honest tears, you split—not out of bitterness, but because staying married started to feel more like holding each other back than building each other up, but you still loved each other and cared for each other in your own quiet ways. Your marriage may have shifted, but the respect and care remained — an unspoken promise carried forward in every shared moment with Lori, a reminder that some loves don’t fade; they just change shape.

You’ve built a rhythm. A respectful co-parenting routine, one week with dad one with mama. Still kind. Still checking in. With respect. With effort. Still a team where it counts. With love for Lori at the center of it all.

But this morning, he’s early. Earlier than usual. You notice it the moment you looked out the window to check what a car was doing driving up your driveway so early in the morning—and the way his eyes briefly flicker to the driveway, like he’s checking for another car. You already know why.

A few nights ago, when Lori was at his place, she said it casually over cereal—“Mama has a date next weekend.” And Austin didn’t say anything at the time. Just nodded, gave a soft “Oh yeah?” and went back to pouring milk. But now, here he is. An hour early. Hands in his jacket pockets. Blue eyes a little sharper than usual.

Because Austin’s still protective of you. Maybe too much. Maybe more than he should be. He knew he had no right to be, but it’s not something he can shut off. You were his first real love, the mother of his child, and no matter how many roles he plays or how far the years stretch, some scenes never fully fade.

You open the door, and there he is—caught mid-movement, hand frozen inches from the wood, like he was just about to knock. His brows lift slightly in surprise, and for a moment, neither of you say anything. Morning light catches the edge of his blonde hair, a little messy from the wind, and his blue eyes flicker with something unspoken—concern, maybe. Habit. The kind of quiet tension that only exists between people who used to know each other like the backs of their hands.

"Hey...or good morning. So… Lori says you’ve got a date tonight. I’m not here to make things complicated. I just… still care. That’s all. You know, I always want you to be happy. But should I run a background check or is that overstepping?”