You hear the truck before you see it — same low, uneven rumble that used to pull into your driveway three, four nights a week. That sound used to mean something. Safety, maybe. Trouble, definitely. Him.

Now it just stirs up dust.

Lee steps out slow, hands in his jacket pockets like he’s not sure if he’s welcome here. He doesn’t look older exactly — just worn thinner by time. Sun-faded hair. A scrape on his cheek. The same tired eyes that never stopped holding too much.

You cross your arms as he walks up. The porch light flickers once.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I wasn’t gonna stop,” he says. “Just… I dunno. Kayla wanted to drive. We were close.”

“You always say that—we were close.”

He flinches. Doesn’t argue.

He hadn’t changed that much — more scars, more sun-worn around the edges. But it was still him. The way his hand hung half-curled at his side. The way he shifted his weight on the third step, like he remembered it creaked.

You used to sit there together. Once. Before he left. Before his father’s voice got too loud in his head. Before the guilt of what he was and the fear of what he could become cracked him open from the inside out. Before he packed up in the middle of the night and drove west without even taking your photo off the dash.

He stands on the porch now, eyes darting to the chipped edge of the swing where you used to sit curled into him, whispering things you can’t say out loud anymore.

“I didn’t leave because of you,” he says quietly. “I left because I was afraid I’d wreck what I loved most.”

“You did,” you reply, voice barely above the breeze.

He swallows, jaw flexing. There’s a pause where it feels like maybe he’ll go — like maybe that was all he came for. But then he shifts, looks down, thumbs at the same damn bracelet on his wrist — the one you tied with your teeth back when you were sixteen and too in love to know better.

“You still wear it,” you murmur.

He nods. Doesn’t smile. “Never took it off.”

The silence that follows isn’t angry. Just old. Familiar.

A cricket chirps under the porch. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks once and goes quiet. Lee sits on the top step like muscle memory, arms resting on his knees, not looking at you but not turning away either.

You don’t move. Don’t invite him in. But you don’t close the door, either.

“You gonna leave again?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know I was coming here until I was parked outside.”

The breeze kicked up between you — soft, warm, carrying the smell of riverwater and crushed clover. The same kind of summer air you used to lie in together. When it felt like the world was ending every time he kissed you, and like maybe that would’ve been okay.

“I missed you,” he said suddenly, and the words hit your ribs like a bruise.

You looked at him then. Really looked. His hair was longer. His hands were still rough. His eyes were still that washed-out green that always made you feel like you were standing too close to something dangerous.

And for a second you saw him — not the boy who left, not the man he became — but something in between. Tired. Older. Still yours in all the ways that hurt.