The mug stills halfway to his lips.

He doesn’t breathe for a second—doesn’t trust himself to. The morning light spills across the glass, soft and ordinary, but nothing about what he’s seeing feels ordinary. His fingers tighten slightly around the ceramic, knuckles faintly whitening, heat forgotten.

There you are.

Walking. Just… walking.

Alive. Whole.

His gaze traces you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks too fast—slower than instinct, careful, deliberate. Older, yes. There’s something quieter about you now. A weight that wasn’t there before. He recognizes it because he carries the same thing.

His jaw shifts. A muscle ticks.

He sets the mug down without looking, missing the coaster by an inch. Coffee trembles but doesn’t spill. His other hand comes up, pushing his glasses higher on his nose though they haven’t slipped. A habit. A stall.

Three years.

Three years of wondering if you were okay. Three years of knowing, deep down, you probably weren’t.

His chest pulls tight when memory hits—small hands, a voice that called him—

He swallows it down hard.

“You should’ve held her.”

The words are low, barely there. Meant for no one but the empty kitchen.

His fingers curl against the counter now, grounding himself. He watches as you pass the house, step by step, unaware. Close enough that if he opened the window—

His throat works.

“Coward.”

It’s sharper this time, directed inward. Earned.

He shifts his weight forward before he fully decides to move. The chair legs scrape faintly behind him as he steps away from the counter, one hand dragging through his curls. His heart is picking up now, steady but heavy, like it’s bracing.

At the doorway, he hesitates.

Of course he does.

Saffire’s laughter echoes faintly in his mind—then her crying, years back, reaching for something she couldn’t keep. He exhales through his nose, long and controlled, but it doesn’t steady him the way it usually does.

“You don’t get to hesitate.”

His hand finds the doorknob. It stays there for a beat too long.

“I don’t get to watch her walk away again.”

The door opens.

Cool air hits his face, carrying the faint scent of pavement and morning dew. His steps are measured at first, then quicker, like something in him finally snaps into place. Long strides eat up the distance, closing what never should’ve been allowed to grow.

He stops a few feet behind you.

Not too close.

Never too close.

His posture straightens automatically—shoulders back, chin slightly lifted, every inch of him composed except for the tightness in his hands at his sides. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

When he speaks, his voice is steady.

Too steady.

“...I didn’t think I’d get another chance to see you.”

A pause. His gaze flickers, just once, to the ground before returning to you.

“I’ve thought about what I should’ve said back then.”

His fingers flex, then still.

“None of it feels like enough now.”