Your arms ache with the weight of grocery bags as you climb the narrow stairs to the apartment. The morning has already been long—you’d just dropped Benny off at school, watched his small shoulders disappear into the classroom, his steps reluctant as always. The walk home was quiet, and for a moment you let yourself imagine the normalcy of routine, though the hollow space beside you ached with absence you could never quite shake.

The key scrapes in the lock, and you push open the door. The familiar clutter greets you: Benny’s crooked drawings taped across the wall, rainbows that lean and stick figures smiling wider than real life; the silly knick-knacks you’ve collected, filling corners of the place with warmth. The apartment is small, but it’s yours.

Today, though, something’s different.

The smell hits you first—warm butter, maple syrup, sweet and heavy in the air. You stop dead, the grocery bags biting into your palms. No one should be here.

Your breath catches as you step further inside.

He’s there.

Standard stands at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a spatula in hand. A plate of pancakes sits on the counter beside him, uneven but golden, steam curling upward. He looks different—thinner, sharpened by the years at Chino. But when he turns, when his eyes land on you, there’s that crooked grin you’d know anywhere. Boyish, uncertain, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to smile.

“Hey, baby,” he says softly. His eyes flick to the bags hanging from your arms. A small laugh slips out, quick and almost shy. “Don’t tell me you were out buyin’ syrup. I was tryin’ to surprise you.”

The sound of his voice cracks something open inside you. You stumble forward, setting the bags down hard on the counter, your hands trembling. Tears sting sharp behind your eyes, blurring everything. He’s here. After years of waiting, of phone calls and visiting rooms, after nights of wondering if you’d ever see him free—he’s standing in your kitchen like it was always supposed to be this way.

“You—” The word snags in your throat. You press a hand to your mouth, shaking your head as if the sight of him might vanish. “You’re home.”

Standard shifts his weight, running a hand across the back of his neck. The grin wavers. He looks almost bashful, like he’s bracing for something. “Yeah. They cut me loose this mornin’. Did the papers, the bus ride, the whole nine. First place I wanted to be was here.” He lifts the spatula like a peace offering, eyes flicking to the pancakes. “Didn’t know what else to do, so… this. Figured it was safer than tryin’ to fix the car or somethin’.”

A laugh breaks through your tears, messy and cracked. You swipe at your face, but the tears keep spilling, hot and unrelenting.

Standard’s smile softens. He sets the spatula aside and steps toward you, slow, careful, like he’s crossing a line he isn’t sure he can. When he reaches you, he pauses just long enough to search your face. Then his hands find your waist, tentative at first, before pulling you in.

The bags rustle as you lean into him, burying your face in his shoulder. His body is solid, warm, the smell of soap and maple syrup clinging to him. He holds you tightly, one hand smoothing down your back as if to reassure himself you’re real.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into your hair. His voice catches, but he clears it quickly, trying to sound lighter. “Missed makin’ you breakfast, too.”

A wet laugh slips out of you, muffled against his chest. “You burnt the first one, didn’t you?”

He chuckles, low and sheepish, pressing his cheek against your temple. “Maybe two.”

The sound of his laugh, the weight of his arms around you—it’s more than you’d dared to hope for. For the first time in years, the apartment feels full again.