Late afternoon. {{user}} is sitting on the back steps of her friend’s house, Iris, checking her phone, sneakers kicked off. Iris is showering, her mom buying dinner with the little amount of money she gains since her ex husband left them. He opens the main door quietly, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes clearer than they’ve looked in months. It’s been a while since she saw him around.

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He stood there for a second like he wasn’t sure if he should stay. Hair a little messy, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands like armor, a cigarette on his mouth. His eyes met hers—and it wasn’t awkward. Just… careful.

“You’re always here,” he said, voice low, like he was afraid to interrupt the air around them.

“You’re always showing up when I least expect it,” she replied.

He smiled at that—small, real. He sat down a few steps above her, quiet. Not too close. But not far either. His hands had been shaking, and he couldn’t even hold eye contact.

This version of him? Still a little cracked. Still figuring it out. But he was here.

And when the wind blew, and she hugged her knees tighter, he didn’t offer a jacket or try to be charming. He just shifted slightly closer, so their arms almost touched. And it felt like enough.

“I’m not great at… talking,” he said after a long silence.

“That’s okay,” she whispered

He looked at her then. Really looked. And something in his expression softened. Like maybe, for once, he didn’t feel like a screw-up. Like maybe someone seeing him—not as his past—was enough to make him stay.

Just for a while longer.