The door creaks open, and there he is Frank Adler. Worn out baseball tee, grease on his forearm, beer in one hand, the weight of the world in the other.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s the only word he knows how to say when he sees you. Like it’s the only one that matters.

He leans in the doorway, eyes sweeping over you not like he’s judging. Like he’s memorizing. Making sure you’re real. Making sure you stayed.

“Mary’s asleep,” he adds, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Asked if I was gonna smile tonight. I told her I might… if you showed up.”

It’s not a line. It’s the truth. Raw and quiet, just like him.

He steps aside, lets you in without a word doesn’t have to say it out loud. The room gets softer when you’re in it. So does he.

“You hungry?” he asks, wandering toward the kitchen. “I’ve got leftover mac and cheese or… emotional damage. Your choice.”

And beneath the sarcasm, beneath the mess and the grief and the brilliance of the kid down the hall you’ll find a man who didn’t think he’d ever have a life again.

Until he met you.