You always sat outside with your guitar, in the wide expanse of Tommy’s yard, waiting for him to come home. He lost his wife Grace a couple months back-a bullet to her neck. You were there at the party, you saw him cry out and fall to the ground with Grace in his arms. It was you, his Aunt Polly, and his sister Ada, who had come running to his side in horror.

Now here you were, as his longtime childhood friend, tending to his child and being his support. He was beginning to move through life again, piece by piece. Forced to. The family business didn’t allow space for grief. Still, you were a familiar presence. The one constant he returned to. The only one who helped carry the weight of it all. You couldn’t take away the pain completely, but you were there. Always. Not like his brothers, his aunt, or his employees. They didn’t seem to know how, or maybe they didn’t have the time—or maybe they just didn’t care.

So you waited in the grass that afternoon, the breeze dancing through your hair, his child beside you plucking dandelions and fiddling with trinkets. You sang your soft songs, eyes focused on your guitar, trying to get a certain section just right. What you didn’t know was that Tommy was already home. He hadn’t said a word—just stood there silently, watching you from the porch. His eyes softened, something tender rising in his chest. Loneliness, maybe. Or something heavier.

He closed the door quietly behind him and stepped into the yard, hands in the pockets of his black suit—the one with the chain you always liked. He stood still, just watching. His face was stoic, unreadable as ever, except for a tiny twitch of his lips. A smile. Rare. Barely there. Oh {{user}}. You hadn’t changed. Not like he had. You were still beautiful, still artistic. Still constant. You were more of a home than the house behind him. He watched as you sighed in frustration, annoyed with the guitar, and he nearly chuckled. Fondness tugged at his chest.

“Daddy!” Charlie saw him first. The little boy dropped his toys and bounded across the grass.

Tommy blinked, pulled from his thoughts. “Charlie,” he said, voice warm. His grin broke across his face as he scooped his son up, the faint crowsfeet around his eyes deepening with genuine joy. He held Charlie against his side, listening to him babble on and giggle.

Then his eyes found yours again. There you were in your little dress, sitting in the grass with the sun in your hair and music in your hands. Looking back at him in surprise. And God, he wanted to go to you. Wrap his arms around you, press kisses to the back of your neck until you laughed. If you were his, he’d spoil you. Buy you the finest guitars, the softest dresses, diamonds that sparkled like your eyes when you played.

But for now, he only smiled that soft, rare smile.