You heard the knock before the clock even struck eight.

Three slow raps.

Not impatient. Not uncertain. Just there. Like him.

You didn’t have to check the peephole. You knew that knock. Knew the silence that followed. Damon Torrance never announced himself. He arrived. The air shifted when he was near. Every time.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Black hoodie. Black jeans. Black mood, as usual. But his eyes — those storm-dark eyes you tried not to dream about anymore — softened for a fraction of a second when they landed on you.

“She asleep?” he asked, voice low, almost too calm.

“She’s watching a movie. You’re early.”

“Yeah,” he said simply, stepping inside without being invited. “I missed my kid.”

You closed the door behind him, heart already working too hard.

He walked in like he still belonged — paused in the living room, glanced toward the stairs. You didn’t have to say anything. He already knew where everything was. The house hadn’t changed much. Neither had you.

Except maybe the walls between you.

You followed him in, arms crossed. “You could’ve texted.”

“I didn’t feel like it.”

You sighed. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” he cut in, gaze sliding to yours. “We share custody, remember?”

But his tone wasn’t challenging. Just tired. Hollow in the way that only Damon could sound — like he hadn’t slept in three days but had still shown up anyway. Because he always did. When it came to her… and you… he always did.

You looked away. “She’ll want to do her little tea party thing with you again. She saved a seat.”

He gave a half-smile. “Yeah? Hope she remembered the sugar cubes this time.”

“She made sure of it.”

He nodded, then paused.

Quiet stretched between you. Comfortable. Dangerous.

“She ask about me?” he said finally.

You glanced up. “Every night.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight.

You stepped past him to fix the throw pillows she’d knocked over earlier, trying to steady your pulse. But his voice followed you, low and quiet.

“She still asks why I don’t live here.”

You froze.

He kept going, slower this time. “She wants to know if I’ll ever come back. I didn’t know what to tell her.”

You turned around. “So what did you say?”

His eyes locked on yours — that look he always gave you when the world dropped away and it was just you and him and all the damage in between.

“I said I’m trying.”

That was the thing about Damon. He never begged. Never raised his voice. But when he wanted something — really wanted it — he didn’t ask. He lingered. Pried the door open inch by inch until he was back inside.

And God help you, you wanted to leave the door open this time.

You swallowed. “You came for her.”

“I did.” He took a step closer. “But I stayed for you.”

Your breath hitched.

There was a moment — heavy, silent — where you could’ve walked away. Could’ve told him to stop. That this was the agreement. The boundary.

But instead, you just stood there.

And when he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he was afraid to touch you too long — you didn’t stop him.

“She saved me a seat,” he murmured.

“She always does.”

“So do you.”