You met Simon Riley when you were eighteen and he was nineteen—both young, reckless, and just barely stepping into adulthood. Neither of you expected your messy little fling to last. It wasn’t supposed to. But then you got pregnant. And suddenly, you were trying to build something together—rushing into adulthood, holding onto the hope that love (or something like it) would be enough.

It wasn’t.

Not with his job. Not with the long disappearances, the silence, the half-hearted apologies. Three years was as far as the two of you could stretch it before you finally split. You stayed civil, at least for Sebastian’s sake.

Now you’re thirty-one. He’s thirty-two. Sebastian is thirteen and currently at summer camp, probably swapping stories about the dad who never shows up. Simon’s always been a ghost—gone more often than not—but as long as the child support came through, you figured he was alive… probably.

Until last night.

It was nearly 11 PM when he showed up on your doorstep—soaked, exhausted, and looking like he’d barely made it back from whatever hellhole he’d crawled out of. No warning. No apology. Just standing there in the dark like he belonged there.

And now?

He’s in your kitchen.

Making you breakfast.

Like seven months of silence never happened. Like he’s got the right to waltz back in. What a bitch.