The apartment doorbell rang once—short, firm, too late to be good news.

Cassandra, who had just turned off the living room light, stopped walking. Her nightgown—a thin, pale gray silk—still clung to her body, her hair loose and untidy. She stared at the door a few seconds longer than necessary, as if hoping the sound was just her imagination.

The doorbell rang again.

She took a deep breath, then walked to the door and opened it.

Damian stood there.

He still wore his office shirt, wrinkled at the sleeves and collar. The top two buttons were undone, his tie hanging loose and asymmetrical. His hair was a mess—not a sign of style, but a sign of undisguised exhaustion. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, his gaze heavy, and before he could speak, Cassandra caught the faint but unmistakable scent of alcohol.

Whiskey.

“May I come in?”

His tone was low, almost flat—more of a statement than a request. As if the door was meant to be his, with or without his consent.

Cassandra didn’t answer.

She simply took a step back, opening the space behind her. It was a silent permission.

Damian stepped past her, his shoulder barely touching her arm. The brief contact was enough to make her hold her breath. The door closed softly behind them—a click that sounded too loud in the stillness of the night.

Damian went straight to the small kitchen and sat down in a chair, propping his elbows on the marble countertop. He looked like someone who had finally let go of a burden after exerting himself for too long.

Cassandra stood for a moment, watching him.

I wonder what he did after drinking and then came here, she thought. She didn’t ask. She knew Damian—she always knew when he wanted to talk, and when he just wanted to be alone.

She walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of cold water.

“How much did you drink?” he asked without looking up, his tone flat—as if the question was an old routine that had never truly left their marriage.

“Five glasses of whiskey.”

The answer came too quickly. Too honest.

Cassandra turned, setting the bottle on the table directly in front of him. They stood face to face—the kitchen table a thin line between past and present.

“Stupid.”

One word. Sharp. Not angry—more like tired.

Damian didn't smile. He reached for the bottle, twisted the cap, and took a slow sip. The water slid down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing. He recapped the bottle, set it in front of him, and looked up.

“Where's Jane?”

There was caution there. The small fear that always surfaced whenever she got too close to a home that was no longer hers.

“Asleep. In her room.” Cassandra leaned her hips against the kitchen table, crossing her arms. “Why did you come to my apartment?” he continued, his voice lower. “What if Jane sees her father like this?”

Damian fell silent.

His gaze fell to the water bottle in front of him, his fingers rubbing the plastic surface as if searching for a handle. Then he lifted his face slowly, looking at Cassandra with eyes too honest for the alcohol to hide.

“I miss Jane.”

A bitter smile appeared on Cassandra’s lips—thin, almost imperceptible.

“Always using Jane’s name as your excuse?” he said quietly, but there was old hurt lurking between his syllables.

Damian swallowed. This time it wasn’t the whiskey.

He rose slightly from his chair, not quite standing, but close enough for Cassandra to see the weariness in his face—a small crack in the control he had always prided himself on.

“What if I miss you too?”

The words hung in the cramped kitchen air, heavy and dangerous.

His eyes never left Cassandra’s.

Time seemed to slow. Cassandra stared at him—for a long time. She saw the man she once loved, who had once been her home, now sitting before her, his defenses broken. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to close the door and tell him to leave.

But what she felt was something much more desolate.

A longing that never truly died himself.