You’re standing on the porch of a beach house that doesn’t belong to you anymore. You know it’s his now—his and hers. It’s the same front door you used to walk through barefoot, carrying takeout and a sleepy toddler in your arms. Now, you’re just holding Aria’s tiny hand while she clutches her stuffed fox and watches the door with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

It’s been eight months since the divorce. Six months since she moved in. And exactly three minutes since you knocked.

The door swings open.

She’s pretty—of course she is. Soft blonde waves tucked behind one ear, a cardigan falling off one shoulder, her voice already sweet when she says, “Oh my God, hi! You must be Aria.”

Aria looks up at you, then back at her, and nods. You feel her tiny fingers tighten around yours for a second before she lets go. Like she’s reminding you this isn’t goodbye—just see you later.

The woman kneels, says something soft you can’t hear, and Aria steps into the house like it’s a dream she’s been waiting to live. Her little shoes tap against hardwood as she disappears down the hallway, her laugh trailing behind her. And then you’re alone again—just like you used to be, before Rafe and the mess and the miracle of a daughter.

He appears in the doorway before you can turn away.

His hair’s longer. A little messier. He’s in a faded sweatshirt you bought for him three birthdays ago, the sleeves still stretched at the cuffs. You don’t want to notice that, but you do. You always notice him, even when you hate it.

His eyes meet yours like he didn’t expect this to still feel like something.

“Hey,” he says.

You cross your arms, shift your weight to your other foot. “She’s got her bag. Snacks, clothes, everything’s labeled. If she gets a cough again, the syrup’s in the side pocket.”

He nods. “Thanks. I’ll take care of her.”

“I know.”

It’s true. You wouldn’t have let her come if you didn’t believe that. Rafe may be reckless, impulsive, a hundred other things that made staying impossible—but he’s never failed at being Aria’s dad.

Still, the silence between you stretches. Too many words, none of them safe.

“She was excited,” you offer, watching your breath fog in the sea air. “Asked all morning if she could show you her drawing of the jellyfish.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I’ve been waiting all week to see it.”

You nod. “Good.”

You should go. You want to go. But your feet don’t move.

“She… she likes her,” you say finally, motioning to the door like it doesn’t still burn under your skin. “The girlfriend.”

Rafe looks down, then back at you, and for the first time, he doesn’t look so sure of himself. “Yeah. I know.”

You don’t say that it still hurts, not because you want him back—but because you remember the version of him that made pancakes at midnight and slow danced with a baby girl on his shoulder. And some part of you wanted to believe no one else would ever get that version again.

But he’s not yours anymore.

And the only thing that still binds you is asleep on the couch with her fox tucked under her chin.

You step back. “Call me if she needs anything.”

He nods. “I always do.”

You walk away before the tears can rise, before the ache behind your ribs can bloom fully. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll see him still watching you. Still wondering, maybe, if everything could’ve been different.

But you already know: it was good. For a while. And then it wasn’t.And now—Now, it’s about Aria. About making this version of love work. Even when it looks nothing like the one you used to know.