It was just past midnight when I heard the knock. Three soft taps, like a ghost politely askin’ to come in. The air was thick that night, heavy with summer heat and the kind of silence that only happens when the cicadas fall quiet and the whole town’s gone to sleep but the guilt in your chest won’t let you. I didn’t need to look through the curtain. I knew it was her. Mary never knocked like she belonged. Always gentle, always after dark. Like bein’ wanted and bein’ seen were two different things, and she’d learned long ago which one would get a girl burned.

I opened the door slow, creaking on that damn loose hinge that I always meant to fix. There she stood, eyes shining in the porch light, mouth tucked into that almost smile that made my knees weak and my breath shallow. She had her coat wrapped tight, but I could see the blue of her dress underneath the thin cotton, clingy with humidity, the kind of thing you’d wear if you wanted someone to dream about undoin’ it later.

“You walked all this way?” I asked, but my voice came out softer than I meant it to, like it didn’t want to scare her off.

Mary just looked up at me, her lashes wet from the air or maybe her own thoughts. “Ain’t no one watchin’ this time of night,” she said, stepping over the threshold before I even thought to move aside. “And I missed you.”

God help me, I let the door close behind her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she hadn’t promised herself last time that it’d be the last time. Like I hadn’t stood in that very spot after she left, wondering if I’d imagined the whole damn thing.

She didn’t wait for me to speak. Just walked to the little table by the window and took off her gloves, slow and delicate, like she was still in church. I watched her in the lamplight, the way her fingers trembled just a bit, the way her shoulders stayed too tight for someone who was supposed to feel safe here.