The doorbell rings.

You don’t move.

Your hand is still on Christopher’s hair as he naps on the couch, his little chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.

You tell yourself it’s just a neighbor. A delivery. Someone wrong.

But the sound of the bell presses against your ribs like a hand.

You set Christopher’s blanket gently over him and stand.

You walk to the door slowly, like you’re walking toward a storm you’ve been avoiding for eight years.

You open it.

And there he is.

Carter Baizen.

Same eyes. Same jaw. Same dangerous calm.

But older. Worn. Like he’s been carrying something heavy for a long time.

Your stomach drops.

“Carter,” you say, voice tight.

He swallows hard, like he’s not sure he can do this.

“I didn’t think you’d answer,” he says quietly.

“Why would I?” you ask.

He looks past you, toward the couch, toward the sleeping child you never told him about.

His eyes flick back to yours.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

You don’t move.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

“Why are you here?” you demand.

Carter’s gaze drops to the ground.

“I need to explain,” he says.

“Explain what?” you snap. “Explain why you left? Explain why you didn’t even call? Explain why you disappeared the moment I told you I was pregnant?”

His jaw tightens.

“I didn’t disappear,” he says. “I— I was forced to leave.”

You laugh, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a sharp sound of disbelief.

“Forced,” you repeat. “By who?”

Carter looks up, eyes filled with a pain you’ve never seen in him before.

“The mafia,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“You’re joking,” you whisper.

“I’m not,” he says, voice steady but strained. “They were after me. After my family. After anyone connected to me. I thought if I stayed… you’d be in danger.”

You stare at him, unable to move.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” you ask.

“I didn’t think I’d make it out alive,” he admits. “I thought if I stayed, you’d end up dead because of me.”

Your hands shake.

“Christopher is eight,” you say. “Eight years, Carter. I raised him alone. I didn’t get a single message from you. Not one.”

Carter’s eyes close for a second.

“I know,” he says softly. “And I hate myself for it.”

You want to slam the door.

You want to scream.

You want to cry.

But instead, you find yourself asking the question you’ve avoided for eight years:

“Where were you?”

Carter steps closer, but he doesn’t enter.

He stays on the threshold, like he’s not sure he deserves to cross.

“I was hiding,” he says. “I was running. I was trying to find a way out.”

“And you couldn’t find a way out?” you ask, voice breaking.

“I couldn’t risk you,” he says. “I couldn’t risk Christopher. I thought if I stayed away, I was protecting you.”

You shake your head, tears spilling now.

“You didn’t protect me,” you whisper. “You left me.”

Carter’s eyes fill.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”

Silence hangs between you.

You look past him, toward the couch again, toward the sleeping boy who looks like you, who looks like the future you were supposed to have.

You swallow.

“What do you want?” you ask.

Carter’s voice is quiet.

“I want a chance,” he says. “I want to meet him. I want to be in his life. If you’ll let me.”