You’re already running late.

One shoe half-on, coffee gone cold in the cup holder, keys digging into your palm as you rush into the preschool parking lot. The afternoon sun is low, warm, harmless — completely at odds with the knot in your chest that’s been there all day.

You spot your child first. Three years old, paint-stained fingers, laughter too loud for such a small body. Relief hits you like it always does.

Then you hear a voice you haven’t heard in years.

Low. Familiar. Dangerous in the way memory can be.

“Come on, Aiden. Say bye to Ms. Parker.”

Your heart stutters.

You look up before you can stop yourself.

Mattheo Riddle stands a few feet away, one hand wrapped loosely around a little boy’s wrist. The child has his dark hair, his sharp eyes softened by youth. Aiden. Three years old. His son.

Mattheo looks… older. Not softer — never that — but worn in a way time does to people who’ve lived too much. His jaw tightens when he sees you, breath catching just barely, like his body recognizes you before his mind catches up.

For a second, neither of you move.

The world narrows to the space between you.

“So,” he says finally, voice rougher than you remember. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

You swallow. “Didn’t think you’d be here either.”

Aiden tugs on his hand. “Daddy, can we go?”

Mattheo nods automatically, eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah, buddy. Just a sec.”

Your child presses into your side, small fingers curling into your sleeve. “Mama, who’s that?”

The word hits him like a punch.

Mattheo’s gaze drops — not to you, but to your child. He stiffens, something unreadable flashing across his face. Calculation. Surprise. Something almost painful.

“Who’s that?” Aiden asks, curious now.

You hesitate. Just for a heartbeat.

“An old friend,” you say quietly.

Mattheo lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn’t. “Funny. That’s not the word I’d use.”

Silence stretches.

Neither of you says the obvious things. Neither of you asks the dangerous questions.

You don’t ask if he’s married. He doesn’t ask about you.

But the way his eyes linger — on your hands, your face, the child at your side — tells you everything he isn’t saying.

“You look… good,” he mutters, like the words slipped out against his will.

You tilt your head. “You don’t look terrible yourself.”

That earns a real smile. Small. Crooked. The one that used to undo you.

Aiden tugs again. “Daddy.”

Mattheo crouches, brushing dust from his son’s knee with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. “Go on, champ. I’ll be right there.”

Aiden runs ahead.

Mattheo straightens, closer now. Too close. The past presses in around you — late nights, sharp words, stolen laughter, promises neither of you were ready to keep.

“I didn’t know you were—” he stops himself.

“So,” you say softly, “guess we’re both… here.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “Guess we are.”

For a moment, it feels like standing at the edge of something dangerous. Something unfinished.

Mattheo steps back first. Always the one to retreat before it hurts.

“Maybe,” he says carefully, “we’ll see each other around.”

You nod. “Maybe.”

He walks away, Aiden’s hand slipping into his again.

You watch until they disappear — heart heavy, pulse loud, the echo of a love you never really buried stirring awake.

And for the first time in a long time, you wonder—

Not what was lost.

But what might still be waiting.