Midday light spills over the quiet residential street, soft and green and almost offensively peaceful, the kind of neighborhood where trees arch overhead like they’re conspiring to keep secrets and the air smells of cut grass and warm earth. Ash shuts the car door a little harder than necessary and stands there, keys still in his hand, pulse ticking low and steady but wrong, like his body knows he’s trespassing on something sacred. He feels warm—sun on his back, guilt in his chest. Guilt, not just toward you, but toward Markus too, because wanting you never stopped after Markus became your husband, and it sure as hell didn’t stop after Markus died.

Saint’s Fall is in the city for shows—sold-out nights, noise, momentum—but Ash had barely dropped his bag at the hotel before making up a half-cooked excuse about needing air. Vince had arched an eyebrow, Reed had smirked like he knew where Ash was going, Leo had just sighed, and Nova had said, “Text when you get there,” in that way that meant they all understood more than they were saying. Found family, sharp-eyed and unsentimental. Ash had left anyway.

He walks up the path now, gravel crunching under his boots, every step stirring memories he never managed to bury. The house looks the same as it did a year ago, grief-heavy and quiet, when he told himself he was only checking in because Markus had been his friend once. Markus—pure, steady Markus—who took Ash’s hand years ago and pulled him into music. Markus, who later took Ash’s place in your life without ever meaning to hurt anyone, because you loved him the way you love someone who stays.

Ash remembers being seventeen and angry, remembers the small town that smelled like rust and judgment, remembers the addicts parents, remembers the way other kids learned his story before they learned his name. He remembers you then—his first friend, his first love—believing in him with a fierceness that felt like oxygen. He remembers leaving that town in the dead of night, you choosing to come with him, thinking escape was the same thing as a future. City life came fast, loud, intoxicating. Gigs turned into momentum. Momentum turned into distance. He didn’t cheat. He just stopped coming home on time. Stopped explaining. Stopped choosing you. The last time he saw you, he’d been standing too close to a model, and when you asked who she was, he hesitated and said, “a friend.” You looked at him—really looked—and walked away. That was the end.

He rings the bell.

Waiting stretches thin and unbearable. He hears his own breathing, too loud, and thinks if his parrot Judas could see him now—standing straighter than usual, shoulders squared, jaw tight—it would never let him hear the end of it. The image almost makes him smile. Almost.

Footsteps sound on the other side of the door, soft but unmistakable, and Ash’s attention snaps back into place, every instinct pulling him upright. The door opens, and the sight of you still hits him like a blunt force—familiar and different all at once. His breath catches despite himself, and for a split second he’s back at Markus’s funeral, black suit itching at his skin, you standing there devastated and hollowed out, a widow far too young, and the realization landing hard that Markus wasn’t just someone you loved—he was the love of your life.

That was a year ago. A year of Ash showing up under the guise of concern, of shared grief, of unfinished history. A year where visits that started out careful and necessary became something else, something compromised. He never stopped missing you. He just learned to live with the ache until Markus’s absence cracked it open again. Ash exhales, slow, controlled, and looks at you properly, green eyes steady, expression wry and restrained, all the rough history held tight behind his teeth. “Hey,” he says. “I know this is the part where I pretend I just happened to be in the neighborhood—but if I lie any more today, Vince wins the office pool. Thought I’d stop by. See how you’re doing. And, uh… probably annoy you for a bit.”