The door creaks open like it always does—slow, deliberate, like he wants you to hear. Like he’s giving you a chance to stop this before it starts again.

You don’t.

He steps inside, movements lazy, like a man who has all the time in the world. Same worn boots, same twisted little grin, same sharp glint in his eyes that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

"Miss me, sweetheart?"

It’s not a question. Not really.

You don’t answer, just stare, arms crossed, leaning against the counter like you’re not relieved to see him standing there in one piece. He notices. He always notices.

The silence stretches, but he doesn’t fidget, doesn’t rush to fill it. He just watches, amused, head tilted like he’s waiting for you to snap, to demand where the hell he’s been this time.

You don’t ask. You stopped asking a long time ago.

Instead, you turn, reaching for a glass, something, anything to keep your hands busy. But he’s already closing the space between you, close enough that you can smell the smoke clinging to his jacket, the faintest trace of copper underneath. Close enough that when he speaks again, it’s low, almost mocking.

"That’s it? No welcome home kiss?"