Friday nights always felt like borrowed time. Dawn’s still wrestling her little sneakers on when you hear his knock—soft, almost careful, like he knows he shouldn’t still come to your door this way, but can’t help himself.

You open it—and there he is: Rafe, standing in the doorway like he never really learned how to leave. Same buzzed hair, same blue eyes that still know every part of you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice warmer than it should be.

You almost whisper it back—hey—but the word sticks in your chest. Because seeing him always drags it back: seventeen, hot salt air at the country club, him leaning on the railing with that grin that could undo you in a breath. How it turned into late nights sneaking off together, teasing that turned to kisses, and you falling so hard it scared you.

Teenage love led to teenage mistakes, and the test turned pink. Eighteen felt too young.

You were terrified. So was he—but God, he stayed. Through swollen feet and hormone-fueled fights, through nights you cried so hard you thought you’d break apart. His forehead pressed to yours, hands spread wide on your belly, whispering half-scared promises.

Dawn came screaming into a rainy April morning, and you swear he cried harder than you did. You watched him fall in love twice over—first with you, then with her—and you thought nothing could ever ruin something so pure.

But life did. Ward died, and with him, pieces of Rafe you couldn’t save. His world turned colder; business turned meaner. The boy who once whispered your name like a prayer started whispering it like a curse he couldn’t shake. And you? Too young, too tired, too hopeful for a man at war with his father’s ghost.

At twenty-two, you signed the papers with shaking hands. Dawn was almost five. You split your hearts down the middle—weekdays with you, weekends with him. Holidays still spent together, smiling for Dawn’s sake—and maybe your own.

And it worked. Mostly. He bought you and Dawn a beautiful house you never asked for. Sent checks that felt more like love letters. Never missed a pickup or drop-off, even when his world was on fire.

And tonight? He’s standing there, Dawn’s little hand in his, eyes raking over you—too raw to be polite, too familiar to be casual. The look that still says: I loved you then. I love you now. God help me, I always will.

Dawn’s babbling, twisting the hem of her dress, cheeks pink from excitement. “—and then Chris carried Mommy’s heavy box and stayed for pasta and—”

And you see it hit him.

The way his smile falters enough to punch the air from your lungs. His eyes flick sharp and startled to yours, jaw tightening, shoulders going rigid like someone just threw cold water over him. As if it hasn’t been 2 years since the divorce.

Rafe crouches down, voice soft as worn cotton. “Hey, sunshine, why don’t you go grab your weekend bag?”

She scampers off, hair bouncing. The air tightens the second she’s gone.

“Chris?” he asks. Quiet. Too quiet.

Your mouth opens, but words don’t come. His gaze pins you, sharp and searching.

“It’s… nothing, Rafe,” you manage. “Just someone I’ve been seeing.”

A humorless laugh breaks from his chest, jaw tight. “Funny how it’s nothing when our daughter knows his name.”

“I didn’t want you to hear it like this,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” he steps closer, voice low, almost trembling. “Then how was I supposed to hear it?”

You hesitate. Because part of you never wanted him to hear it at all.

He scrubs a hand through his hair, voice cracking. “Fuck… I knew this would happen.”

“Rafe…”

“Is it serious?” he cuts in, softer now, almost pleading.

You hesitate—and that pause says everything.

His chest lifts, shaky. “God, I hate this,” he breathes out, raw. “Knowing someone else sits at your table. Gets to tuck Dawn in when I’m not there.”

He steps in, so close you catch the scent of him, achingly familiar. His voice drops to almost nothing: “Does he make you happy?”

And for one breath, you both remember everything you built, everything you broke, and the love that still lives in the spaces in between.