You’re half-asleep when you hear the window creak open. Not the front door. Not the porch. The damn window.

You sit up, heart thumping, ready to grab whatever you can to defend yourself—until you hear it.

A soft, “Hey. Hey, it’s me.”

Sean Dudley. Standing in your living room with sand still on his shoes and that same lost-boy look in his eyes. Like he’s not entirely sure why he’s here—just that he had to be.

“I knocked,” he adds sheepishly, holding up a hand with something in it. A gas station burrito and a can of soda. “Figured you didn’t wanna see me, but…”

You don’t say anything. You just stare.

He shrugs. “I kept thinking about that time we went to the beach and you tried to race me into the water but tripped on your own sandal. You were laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe.” He chuckles, then his smile fades. “I miss that. I miss you.”

Silence stretches between you. Tense. Familiar.

“Look,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to make things harder. I just… I didn’t know where else to go tonight.”

And even though you want to stay angry, to remind him how he left things, how he left you—your chest aches when you see the way he’s looking at you.