Garrett opened the door slowly, his hand still gripping the knob as his eyes swept over you—sharp at first, unreadable, like he was bracing for a blow. You shifted on your feet, suddenly aware of the silence stretching between you, heavy with everything unsaid. It had been over a year since the breakup—three hundred and eighty-two days, not that you were counting—and neither of you had spoken since. Not a text. Not even a glance across a crowded room.

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” he said at last, voice low but steady. The words should have stung, but there was something in the way he looked at you—something caught between resentment and concern, like he was trying not to remember how much he used to care.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you took a step forward. “I didn’t know where else to go.” The words came out cracked and fragile, barely louder than the wind rustling behind you.

Garrett’s jaw tightened. He glanced away for a moment, like he needed to gather whatever was left of his resolve. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he stepped back and held the door open just enough.

“Come in,” he said, softer now—like he wasn't sure if he meant it, or if he just couldn’t help himself.