The sliding door creaked as you stepped out onto her back deck, the old wood groaning slightly under your weight. It was dusk — golden light stretching long across the backyard, casting the whole place in this dreamy, warm haze.

Addison didn’t turn.

She was stretched out on a lounge chair, wine glass half-full on the table beside her, legs tucked under a throw blanket even though it wasn’t cold. An orange tabby was curled into her ribs like it lived there — like it belonged more than you did.

You hadn’t seen her in six years.

Not since the fight that ended everything. The kind of fight where nothing cruel had to be said — it was the silence that did it.

And still… here you were.

She finally glanced back at you over her shoulder. Her face didn’t change much. Just… quiet recognition. Maybe a flicker of something in her eyes.

“You’re late,” she said.

You blinked. “You said seven.”

“I said six-thirty. But I didn’t think you’d show either way.”

The cat — Milo, apparently — lifted his head briefly to glance at you, then went back to sleep.

Addison looked back toward the yard. “You still drinking red?”

You stepped forward slowly, hands shoved in your coat pockets. “I don’t know what I’m still doing, Addie.”

For a second, neither of you breathed.

And then she reached out — still not looking at you — and slid the wine bottle closer to the second glass on the table.

“You’re pouring.”