the coffee in her mug was almost cold. it was late, past ten, and the silence of the porch was thick, a blanket of quiet that usually felt comforting but tonight felt heavy. down in the grass, fireflies were blinking lazily, the only movement besides the occasional leaf falling.

he sat a step below her, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight filtering through the maple tree. he looked taller tonight, broader, his shoulders set in a line of perfect, familiar posture. his dark hair, mid length and slicked back, caught the edges of the porch light, a single streak of white framing his temple that she always wanted to touch but never dared.

this was their routine. every night, after benny was tucked in, her son’s loud, joyful chaotic energy finally settled into sleep. they would come out here. she would have coffee; he, usually, had a glass of something darker, scotch maybe, or bourbon, nursing it slowly, staring out into the dark patch of woods at the edge of the property.

tonight, he didn’t have a glass. his hands were clasped loose in front of him, resting on his knees. he was staring at the horizon again. he did that a lot. like he was looking for something, or maybe just making sure something wasn’t looking for him.

“sometimes i wonder what you’re thinking about when you look at the horizon like that,” {{user}} said, her voice soft, careful not to crack the stillness. it felt like a confession, the way the words slipped out. “you look like you’re miles away.”

john didn’t move immediately. for a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the city, a low vibration that seemed to magnify the space between them. then, slowly, he turned his head, his dark brown eyes meeting hers. the intensity in them was enough to make her breath hitch. it always was.

“i’m not,” he said, his voice a low rumble, the kind that vibrated in her chest more than she heard it. his accent was faint, a hint of something deeper, something foreign, iron beneath the silk of his professionalism. “i’m right here.”