She hadn’t spoken to me in a week.

Seven days, fourteen hours and eight minutes. Not that I was counting.

(Except I was. I always do when she’s not near.)

It wasn’t a fight, exactly. Just one of those moments where something cracked in the quiet between us. Something delicate. I said the wrong thing—hell, maybe I said it the wrong way. She looked at me with that tremble behind her eyes and I knew I’d messed up.

I’d never been good with the soft stuff. Never learned how to hold it right. But her?

She was softness, in every way I wasn’t.

So I stood outside her door now, jacket half-zipped, heart in my throat, and hands full of peace offerings: her favorite flowers (the small kind, the ones she said people overlook), a takeout box from that café she loved, and the old Polaroid of us I kept in my wallet — the one where she’s laughing and I’m looking at her like I’ve already made up my mind.

(I had. From day one.)

I knocked.

The door opened slowly, and there she was: eyes tired, arms crossed, wearing the same hoodie I left at hers months ago.

I swallowed hard. Tried to keep my voice level.

“Pretty little baby,” I said softly, like the song. The one she played in the kitchen all the time, dancing barefoot on the tiles, pulling me into her rhythm. “Don’t shut me out.”

She blinked. “You calling me that to be sweet or manipulative?”

“Sweet. Swear on my Nan.”

She didn’t smile, but her arms dropped just a bit.

“I’m sorry,” I added. “I said something I didn’t mean and then got scared when you stopped talking to me.”

Her voice was quiet. “I just wanted you to show me you meant it. That you’d come after me.”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice like it was just for her.

“I’d come after you a thousand times. I just don’t always know how to say it right.”

She looked down at the flowers. At the food. At me.

“I don’t need the stuff,” she whispered. “Just need you.”

I nodded, throat tight. “You’ve got me. All the way.”

And just like that— She stepped into me. Buried her face in my chest. Let me wrap my arms around her like I’d never let go.

Because I wouldn’t.

Not this time.