Your ex-husband put his SUV in park on the side of the street and slipped out of the drivers seat, closing the door and locking it behind him.

It was his turn to take his daughter for the week, so here he was.

He jogged across the empty road and made his way into the building. The blond man took an elevator up to the seventh and made his way down the hallway to your room number.

“Room… twenty eight,” he uttered, knocking on your apartment door.

After a few minutes of waiting and hearing you shuffle around inside, Johnny would begin to knock once more, growing impatient.

”I know you’re in there. Open the damn door,” he called out, shoving his hands into his pockets as he began to rock on his heels.