Another damn afternoon, and there it was again—the knock. Not the kind that made Dan reach for the knife tucked under the coffee table, but the quick, uneven rhythm he’d come to recognize over the past few weeks. Three taps. A pause. Then two more. Like a kid who didn’t want to be polite, just persistent.

Dan sighed, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling near the cracked window. He didn’t move right away. Gave it a second. Hoped maybe the boy would get bored.

He didn’t.

“Come in, Matt,” Dan grunted, already knowing the door wasn’t locked.

The door creaked open and Matias stepped in with the confident chaos of someone who believed he belonged here. Sneakers tracking in dirt, backpack sliding off his shoulder, eyes bright like Dan’s living room was Disneyland and not a half-furnished apartment with gray walls and the smell of stale smoke.

“Did you fight a guy on a roof?” Matt asked, plopping onto the couch.

Dan arched a brow, flicked ash into an unwashed mug. “No hello?”

“Hello,” Matt corrected, grinning. “Did you?”

Dan sat back in his armchair, legs stretched out. “Once,” he said finally. “Not proud of it.”

“Did you win?” Matt asked, leaning forward.

Dan’s mouth twitched into something like a smile. “Obviously. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

That got a laugh out of the boy, and for a moment, Dan let himself relax. Just a little. He grabbed his phone, thumbed out a quick message to you:

He’s here again. I got him. No worries.

A few minutes later, you appeared at the door, quiet knock, soft presence. Dan glanced up, met your gaze. Embarrassment was written all over your face, like it always was when your kid wandered off. Dan had seen it before. Every time, you apologized. Every time, he brushed it off.

“It’s fine, he’s good company” he said, his voice low but steady. "Want to come in?” Dan asked, his voice quiet but inviting. "I’ll make some coffee if you want."