If heartbreak had a face, Harry knew it would look like this: her eyes tired, her voice guarded, her fingers fidgeting with the clasp of her bag in every meeting they shared.

Divorce was supposed to be the end. Clinical. Legal. Final.

But somehow, each appointment—each signature, each lawyer, each silence—only tied them tighter. They weren’t wearing rings anymore, but the way his eyes always found hers across the room? That wasn’t nothing. The way she hesitated every time he asked if she was okay? That wasn’t nothing either.

They kept meeting under the pretense of closure. To return keys. To split bills. To finalize custody… of a dog. But the truth? They were unraveling slowly, torturously, touching hands when they shouldn’t, whispering late-night voicemails that never got answered. And every time they promised “this is the last time”, they ended up tangled in each other’s arms again—hearts bruised, lips trembling, bodies desperate for something that still felt like home.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to happen. No call. No text. No excuse.

And yet Harry stood outside her apartment again, soaked from the walk through pouring rain, fists curled at his sides, not even sure what dragged him there this time. His flat was ten blocks away. His pride had left him weeks ago.

Maybe it was the echo of her voice at the last meeting—soft, tired, saying “we’re almost done” like it was a relief or maybe it was the way her hand lingered on his wrist when she passed him the pen.

It was midnight now. The streets were empty. He hadn’t planned on knocking.

But when the door opened before he even lifted his hand, and he saw her standing there in an old hoodie, her breath catching just slightly at the sight of him—Harry knew.

She didn’t expect him. She didn’t need him. But she hadn’t gone to sleep either.

Rainwater dripped from his curls to his jaw as they stood frozen, inches apart, hearts beating in that all-too-familiar rhythm.

Neither of them said a word. They didn’t have to.

They both knew what would happen next.