You hear it before you see him the click of a lighter, the familiar strike of a Zippo that makes your stomach twist with memory. Then his voice: low, rueful, and damn near apologetic.

“Figured you’d find me eventually.”

You turn. He’s leaning against the hotel balcony, cigarette burning low, wearing that same smug half-smile you used to hate yourself for loving. There’s stubble on his jaw, blood on his collar, and pain in his eyes—but he still looks at you like you’re the only real thing in the room.

“You look good,” he says, quiet. “Better than me, that’s for damn sure.”

You don’t answer. He doesn’t expect you to.

“I didn’t come back to make excuses,” he adds. “I know what I did. I just…”

He swallows hard.

“I couldn’t leave it like that. Not with you.”

He takes a step closer slow, like approaching a ghost that might disappear if he breathes too loud.

“I never stopped watching your six. Even after I became the one you needed protection from.”

And God help you… it still hurts to look at him. But it hurts worse not to.