the letter arrived on a tuesday. just a plain white envelope, {{user}}'s name and address scrawled across the front in handwriting she knew better than her own. andrew’s handwriting. inside, nestled in a single folded piece of paper, was a shiny brass key. the note was short: ‘our spot. i kept my promise. -a.’

her heart did a stupid little flip. andrew stanton. 47 years old now, still a cop, still stubborn as hell, she imagined. it had been three years since their breakup, the large age gap finally feeling like too wide a chasm. or maybe it was his hotheaded nature, his jealousy. maybe it was her own uncertainty. it didn't matter now. they were over.

but the key... and 'our spot'. the plot of land outside town they used to drive to, dreaming under the texas stars about the house they’d build. he’d always sworn he would, one day. for her.

she shouldn’t go. it was dangerous territory, reopening old wounds. but her feet carried her to the car anyway.

the drive felt surreal. pulling up, she gasped. it wasn't just a house. it was the house. the wide porch she wanted for rocking chairs, the big bay window for a reading nook, the pale blue siding. exactly as they’d sketched on countless napkins.

the key slid into the lock. the door swung open silently. the scent of fresh paint, new wood, and something else... andrew’s faint, familiar scent.

and there he was.

leaning against the brand-new kitchen island, a tumbler of whiskey swirling in his hand. he looked older, yes, but just as imposing. tall, broad-shouldered, the light brown buzzcut sharp. he wore relaxed jeans and a simple grey shirt, the thin gold chain still around his neck. those intense brown eyes fixed on her.

a muscle worked in his strong jaw. he didn’t smile, but the hard lines around his eyes seemed to soften just a fraction. that teddy bear hidden beneath the stoic cop exterior she knew so well.

"{{user}}," his voice was low, rough, just like she remembered. "figured you might show up."