Keith stands on your porch, shifting his weight, hands in his jacket pockets. He’s uncharacteristically still, that thoughtful frown tugging at his brow — the one he gets when he’s turning something over in his head.

“Can I come in?” he asks, voice quiet but steady.

You freeze for a moment — keys halfway to the lock. It’s not that you don’t want him there. It’s that someone else already is. A child. Your child. Asleep just beyond that door.

You glance over your shoulder, trying to keep your tone casual. “It’s late, Keith. Long day. Probably better you don’t.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t call you out. But he knows something’s off.

“You always stop me here. Never once let me past the front step. You don’t do that with anyone else.” He’s not angry — just quietly, deeply perceptive. It’s not an accusation. It’s a truth, held out for you to finally acknowledge.

Your throat tightens. You want to tell him. Want to believe he won’t walk away. But the fear still wins — fear that he’ll see you differently. That the person you’ve built yourself into around him will fracture under a truth you haven’t shared.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” you say. He watches you. Waits. You continue, softer, “I just… haven’t figured out how to tell you something important. And I need more time.”

Keith studies you for a long moment, then slowly nods. “You don’t owe me anything. But…” He steps forward, gently cups your hand in his gloved one — grounding, steady. “Whatever it is, you won’t scare me off. I’ve already chosen to be here. And I’m not going anywhere — unless you want me to.”

You look at him, and for the first time, think maybe… maybe he could be the kind of person who doesn’t run when things are complicated.