You hear the sound of tires crunching on the driveway before you even realize someone’s pulled up. When you open the door, he’s there — Austen Blume, in a soft jumper and worn jeans, holding a paper bag of groceries like that somehow makes up for missing your last three birthdays.

He gives that crooked little smile of his. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice warm but tired. “Thought I’d swing by. Didn’t think I needed an invitation to see my favourite person.”

He looks around your place, nodding approvingly. “Nice setup. You’ve done well for yourself.”

There’s a pause — he’s clearly stalling before saying what he came here for. “Figured we could cook dinner, yeah? Like old times. I’ll even let you do the seasoning this time.”