Rafe never really moved out. Not in the way that mattered.

Sure, the divorce was finalized—papers signed, property split, last names untangled like a knot neither of you had the patience to fix. But no matter what the court said, he didn’t consider it over. Not really.

You still came home to him on your porch. Tools spread out like it was his damn job. A cigarette tucked behind his ear. Sawdust on his jeans. Sometimes he’d be halfway through fixing your door frame or patching a wall crack you hadn’t even noticed. He never asked permission. Just showed up.

“You’re trespassing,” you warned once, arms folded tight across your chest.

He didn’t even look up. “I’m improving.”

The problem was, he was. Everything he touched turned out better. And you hated that. Hated how the silence after him felt heavier than when he was still around. Hated how your heater worked better now, how your gate didn’t creak, how your life somehow ran smoother with him meddling in it—even after he shattered the rest of it.

Then came the gifts.

At first, it was practical. A new lock on the back door. A car battery replaced without a word. Then it got more personal. Your favorite flowers in a mason jar on the windowsill. A silk robe draped over your bed. A bottle of perfume you hadn’t worn in over a year—one you knew damn well he had to special order.

“You think this is cute?” you snapped after finding a necklace on your pillow, the same one you used to eye in the boutique window downtown.

“No,” he said, eyes sharp. “I think it’s mine.”

That was Rafe. Possessive. Persistent. He didn’t believe in closure. He believed in second chances. Third ones, if he had to. And he believed you still loved him—even if you didn’t want to.

You tried to ignore him. To shut the door harder, draw the blinds tighter, shut your heart off like a switch. But he always found a way in. Through drywall. Through memories. Through the crack in your armor you didn’t know was still there.

One night, you came home to music playing low from your kitchen. The lights were on. Your mouth went dry.

You stepped inside slowly, quietly, your keys still in your hand like a weapon.

He was there. In your kitchen. Shirt off. Sweat on his brow. Fixing your broken cabinet door like he never left. Like this was still his house. Like you were still his girl.

You didn’t even raise your voice. Just stared. “Why are you doing this?”

He stood up straight, wiped his hands on his jeans, and looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth chasing.

“Because you still wear your ring when you think nobody’s lookin’.”