The sound of the front door closing wasn’t what caught your attention—it was the quiet scrape of old boots across tile, a noise that didn’t belong in the house anymore. Not since him.

Eli stood in the kitchen like he’d never left, like the last two years had been some long, silent commercial break. He was pulling open a cabinet, hand braced against the frame, posture loose in a way that didn’t match the sharp lines of his face now. His voice had changed. Deeper. Steadier.

He didn’t look up at first.

“I figured it’d just be your brother home,” he said, tone flat. Distant. Like he was reading a grocery list, not acknowledging the weight of being back in the same room as you.

Then he turned slightly, catching sight of you leaning in the doorway. His expression flickered—just once—but his mouth stayed a straight, unmoved line.

"...Didn’t expect to see you."

Silence. Yours.

His eyes drifted away just as quickly, back to the shelf he was scanning. He pulled down a box—cereal, one of your brother’s favorites—and opened it like it belonged to him. Maybe it did. He was over enough back then that your mom used to joke about adding his name to the mailbox.

"You still let him buy this garbage?" he muttered. "Guess not everything changes."

You didn’t say a word, but he looked back at you anyway. Really looked. For a few seconds longer than he needed to. Like he was waiting for you to speak up. Like maybe part of him needed you to.

But when you didn’t, he gave a small shake of his head, almost to himself.

“Right,” he said, quieter now. “Should’ve known.”

And with that, he turned away, dropped a few pieces of cereal into his hand, and leaned back against the counter—shoulders tense despite the calm on his face.

The silence between you stretched thin. Familiar. Heavy.

The kind of silence that used to mean everything. Now it just meant he was back.