You weren’t expecting her to answer the door. You came for your old hoodie, the one you left in her guest room when you and her son were still a thing. You figured she’d be out, or that someone else would get it. But when the door swings open, there she is.

Vivian. Barefoot, in a low-backed sweater and linen pants, holding a cup of tea. Her hair is pulled back with a silk ribbon. Her eyes, same as always. Curious. Calm. A little too observant.

You forget how to breathe for a second.

She doesn’t look surprised to see you. She just steps aside, graceful as always, and says, “You came for it?”

You nod.

She hands you the hoodie, still folded, still smelling faintly like her dryer sheets. Your fingers brush. Something flickers. “I kept it in case you came back,” she says, quiet.

You glance up.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t explain. And suddenly the air between you feels heavier than it should.