The room feels smaller with him in it. Deus is a wall of solid muscle, his charcoal shirt straining across his back as he leans against the doorframe. He’s always been bulky, but in the two years since the breakup, he’s become a mountain.

You focus on your brownie, dismantling it with a fork to avoid looking at him. You can feel his eyes, though—a heavy, grounding pressure that tracks your every move. "I’m telling you," your brother Leo says, oblivious to the frost, "that engine in my truck is a total loss unless you take a look. It’s been sitting there for months."

Deus doesn't take his eyes off you. "I’ll look at it," he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "I’ve got time next weekend." "See?" Leo grins. "Roxy, tell him about the noise your car was making last week. He’s the only one who can actually fix anything around here."

You finally look up, your gaze sharp and defensive. "I handled it, Leo. I don’t need a mechanic to save me anymore."

The silence that follows is jagged. Deus shifts his weight, his large frame casting a shadow over your plate. "Your dad told me you did a clean job on the alternator," he says, his voice dropping to a private register. "I didn't think you’d remember the trick I showed you."

"I remembered," you snap, "because I had to. It’s amazing what you can learn when the person who's supposed to be there just... isn't."

Deus’s jaw tightens, a muscle leaping in his rugged face. "I'm here now, Roxy." "For a birthday," you retort. "You haven't stepped foot in my house in two years. You decline every invite my family sends, yet you show up here to play the 'good man' for my grandma? It’s pathetic."

"I decline because I didn't think you wanted a ghost at your table," he says, taking a deliberate step closer until the scent of cedar and cold air hits you. "And I'm here because I wanted to see if you were still as stubborn as you were when you were begging me to stay."

"I stopped begging a long time ago, Deus." He looks down at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. His hand twitches as if he wants to reach out and wipe a crumb from your lip, but the avoidant wall slams down. He pulls back just an inch. "I noticed."

"Deus, dear!" your grandma calls from the kitchen. "Come help me with this heavy punch bowl!"

Deus lingers, his gaze lingering on yours for a beat too long. "We're not done with the engine talk," he murmurs, before turning his broad shoulders away to follow her voice.