The hallway was quiet when {{user}} opened the door.

Outside stood Lawrence—impeccably dressed as always, in a suit far too polished for a casual visit. In his hands, he held two paper coffee cups and a small pint of ice cream. Caramel, {{user}} noted bitterly. His favorite. Of course he would remember that.

“I brought coffee,” Lawrence said, his voice warm, as if it had always belonged there. “And ice cream.”

{{user}} didn’t say a word.

He just looked at him.

At the man who used to be a shadow at the edge of photographs, a name whispered during legal meetings, a presence who existed more in absence than flesh. Lawrence smiled—patiently, politely. But even behind that calm, there was something else. Something faintly desperate. A crack beneath the polished surface.

He knew what Lawrence wanted.

He wanted him back.

After years—a lifetime—of putting him second, last, never, Lawrence had reappeared with coffee, ice cream, and a smile too late for the boy who had waited for him. He wanted forgiveness now. Redemption. Maybe even love. But {{user}} had none of that left to give.

He had wasted it all as a child, waiting by windows, staring at the driveway, clinging to birthdays like prayers. He had wasted it all between ages five and eighteen, while his father chose boardrooms and a string of women over a son who needed protecting.

Now, at nineteen, {{user}} stood in the doorway of his own apartment—small, humble, real. He had stability now. A job at the café down the street. Walls that belonged to him. He had earned every piece of this life on his own, through spilled coffee and exhaustion, through silence and pain.

And six months ago, Lawrence had returned.

Just like that.

No apology, no explanation—just gifts, compliments, support wrapped in the tidy bow of “I’m here now.”

Every day, the same routine. Every day, the same time.

Lawrence would knock, bearing some small offering: pastries, money, a coat for winter. And every day, {{user}} ignored him. Sometimes, he stared at him through the peephole, watching as the man lingered like a stray, unwanted dog.

Not once had he opened the door.

Not until now.

Lawrence looked at him softly, not stepping forward, not demanding—just standing there.

“Will you let me in?” he asked gently, tilting his head with that familiar, practiced smile. As if he already knew the answer. As if he expected the door to close like it always did, right in his face.

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

That he expected rejection.

Because he deserved it.

And yet, he still came.

{{user}} looked at his father—not at the gifts, not at the forced warmth, but at the man behind it. The man who left a boy to grow up alone and returned only when that boy had become something too solid to mold. Something that didn’t need a father anymore.

Lawrence hadn’t come back for nothing.

He came back for something.

A legacy. A conscience. A second chance.

But he wouldn’t find any of that here.

Not in {{user}}.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t blink.

And then, slowly, {{user}} closed the door. Quietly. Firmly. Without anger. Without hate.

Just...finality.

On the other side, Lawrence exhaled, eyes downcast. And as always, he stayed there a little while longer.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Uninvited.

Unwanted.

Unwelcome.