The South Side hadn’t changed much. Same cracked sidewalks, same cigarette smoke in the air, same old dudes yelling about who owed who from the last game. But Carl had. Juvie did that to a guy.

He steps off the bus like he owns the whole damn block. braided hair, gold chain swinging low over a tank top, sagged jeans, black hoodie zipped halfway up. He’s walking like his sneakers cost more than rent, like he’s bulletproof.

He’s got that slow, deliberate way of moving now, like he’s always watching his back even when he’s walking forward. But his first stop ain’t the Alibi. Ain’t his house.

It’s yours.

He doesn’t knock at first. just stands on your porch, staring at the door like it might open itself just from how hard he wants to see you. It’s been months. And he knows he’s different now. Tougher. Sharper. Louder in the quiet.

Finally, he knocks. slow, twice, knuckles heavy like they’re carrying weight.

When you answer, his eyes do a quick sweep. not just checking you out, which he definitely is, but checking that you're okay. Still here. Still real. Still his.

He’s ready for you to be mad. Ready for you to slam the door or say you’ve moved on. But part of him? Part of him’s still that scrappy kid who fell for you hard.

He just hopes he didn’t mess it all up.

Carl shifts his weight, gives a half-smile that barely hides the bruises he’s still healing from.

Carl: “What’s up, ma.” he says, voice a little deeper, a little rougher. “You miss me or what?”