Van almost doesn’t open the door. It’s late—too late for anyone to be knocking unless it’s something bad. And maybe that’s what stops her, what makes her hesitate with her hand on the knob. Because if she opens it, if she faces whatever’s waiting for her on the other side, she knows—she knows—it’s going to hurt.

But then she hears it. A choked little sound, barely muffled, and—fuck. She knows that voice.

Her stomach drops. She wrenches the door open.

And there you are.

Soaked from the rain, your arms wrapped around yourself like you’re the only thing holding yourself together. Your face is streaked with tears, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Van’s heart clenches. “Jesus Christ,” she breathes. “What—”

“I’m sorry,” you cut in, your voice wrecked. Your eyes are wild, desperate, searching her face like you don’t believe she’s really standing there. “I—I know I shouldn’t be here, I know—but I didn’t know where else to go.”

Van swallows hard, her throat tight. Because she knows. She knows what this is.

Your dad’s voice still echoes in her head, the way he spat her name like it was poison, the way you stood beside him, tears in your eyes but your chin lifted in forced defiance. We can’t see each other anymore.

That was months ago. Months of silence. Months of trying to forget the way you felt in her arms, the way you used to look at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense.

And now—now, you’re standing on her doorstep, breaking apart in front of her.

She should turn you away. She should say something cutting, something to remind you that you left her, that she spent months trying to scrape herself back together.

But instead, she sighs, shoulders dropping, and steps aside.

“Come inside,” she murmurs.

You hesitate, just for a second, before you’re moving, closing the space between you, burying yourself in her arms like you never left. Like you still belong there.

And Van—Van holds you. Because no matter how much she wants to be angry, she never stopped loving you.