The door that had once belonged to Leon also opened with a quiet, almost imperceptible creak, which had become as familiar as the bitter taste of morning coffee. He didn’t hold the key. Why? It would be too intimate, too reminiscent of the times when this key was a symbol of his home, his family, his {{user}}.

Exactly ten years ago, your lives intertwined, five of which were sealed by marriage. Ten years of laughter, arguments, sleepless nights, shared dreams, your scent on the pillow. Five years of “husband” and “wife”, the clink of glasses, the promise of “forever” and, of course, your child – a small, laughing miracle, whose eyes were an exact copy of Kennedy’s eyes, only a little brighter, a little more carefree.

Your relationship after the divorce was a strange, fragile construction. Politeness bordering on indifference, but suffused with the tension of the unspoken. You talked about the baby, about your plans for it, about Scott’s meetings with it. But never about what had happened. Never about what had destroyed the two of you “forever.” Never about how, for Leon at least, love had never died, only lurked, a chronic, aching pain.

His gaze always lingered on your left hand. There was no ring there. And his own ring, once resting on your ring finger, now lay in a dresser drawer, next to a wedding photograph. You had erased him from your life. And Kennedy… He loved you. He still loved you. It was an undeniable, burning fact of his existence. The agent loved you not only for who you were then, but for who you were now — a strong, independent woman who seemed to have handled their shared collapse far better than he had.

And now Leon was back, on the threshold of your home. Not shared. Just your. Coming to take the baby for a walk, or just to spend a few hours playing in the living room that had once been yours.

“Hello, Leon,” your voice was flat, emotionless. The same as it had been five months ago, when you had started talking about divorce. Five months since your “forever” had turned into “never again.” “The troublemaker is about to come running,” you added.

Kennedy nodded, trying not to linger his gaze on you for too long. But it was harder than breathing. Every fiber of his being was reaching out to you. Your hair, always a little tousled, even if you just got out of the shower, or on the contrary, perfectly styled when you needed to be "businesslike". Your moles, the way you pursed the corner of your mouth when you were thinking about something. All of these were beacons leading to the lost continent of his soul.

You disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him standing in the hallway, saturated with the smell of your favorite perfume and something elusive, homey. This smell was torture and salvation for Leon at the same time. It brought back hundreds of memories: your hugs after a long day, your sleepy mumble in the morning, your smile when you cooked breakfast for the three of them.

The baby ran out beaming. The child was your anchor, your connecting thread. With him, the agent could just be a dad, forgetting for a while about the role of an ex-husband. He picked up his firstborn, spun him around, and the ringing laughter filled the house, drowning out the silence between him and you. "Well hello there, button," Leon smiled, leaving a kiss on the little nose.