You notice it in the way Shauna looks at you.

Not the guarded scanning she does when the door opens, not the reflexive caution. This is different. This is recognition. Memory. Want.

“{{user}},” she says again, quieter this time, like she’s testing how the name feels in her mouth after everything. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

You smile. “I can.”

That earns a small laugh, realer than the others. It loosens something in her shoulders.

You talk about before. About classes you skipped together, the way she used to steal fries off your plate without asking. When you mention it, she does it again now, tentative at first, then bolder, like muscle memory kicking in. Your fingers brush. The contact is brief, but it sends a visible shiver through her.

She doesn’t pull away.

“I thought,” she says slowly, “that when I came back, nothing would feel familiar. That I’d be… permanently wrong.”

“You don’t,” you say. “You feel like you.”

Her eyes soften at that. Dangerous territory. Hope always is.

The moment stretches. You know you can’t delay forever.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” you say.

Her body stills, but she keeps her gaze on you. Trust, offered carefully.

“I have a son.”

The word lands, and for a heartbeat you think she’s going to bolt. Her smile falters, pain flickering across her face like a shadow.

“Oh,” she breathes.

You lean forward slightly, lowering your voice. “I didn’t then. Not when we were kids. This came later. He’s with his dad tonight. I should’ve told you sooner.”

Shauna nods, swallowing hard. Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look away.

“I had a son,” she says.

You already know, but hearing it from her, here, now, feels intimate in a way that hurts.

“I lost him,” she continues. “And sometimes I forget that other people’s kids don’t disappear. That they get to grow up.”

You reach across the table before you can overthink it, resting your hand near hers. Not touching. An invitation.