The early morning sun over Wisteria Lane had a softness to it you never found in London — a pink, sleepy glow brushing every rooftop, every lawn Bree Van de Kamp had surely judged at least once. Fairview smelled like roses and freshly watered grass, and the faint sweetness of someone overdoing their jasmine hedge. You had forgotten how quiet it was here… how calm. At twenty-six, you were now a published author living in London, juggling deadlines and book tours and the relentless noise of the city. Coming home for a few weeks felt strange — like stepping back into a life you’d outgrown, but one that still fit you in certain corners. Bree had insisted you stay with her. Of course she had. “Hotels are for strangers, darling, not for my daughter.” So you’d agreed, waking up each morning to perfect breakfast spreads, subtle interrogations masked as motherly concern, and her suspiciously pointed comments about “eligible bachelors in Fairview.” Which was exactly why you decided to go for a run at dawn. Peace. Air. No Bree. You jogged down Wisteria Lane, letting the familiar street pull memories from you — sleepovers at the Scavo house with Penny, barbecues where Tom grilled everything just a little too long, Lynette’s controlled chaos that somehow always worked out. You rounded a corner — and stopped. Someone was stretching by a mailbox. Tall. Broad shoulders. Familiar posture. And when he rose, brushing a hand through his hair— Tom Scavo. Older now. A little greyer at the temples. A little heavier around the eyes. Still handsome in that warm, boyish way he’d always had. He blinked as if he wasn’t sure he was seeing you. “Well… look who’s back on Wisteria Lane,” he said, smiling in that gentle, slightly awkward Tom-way. You laughed softly, catching your breath. “Hey, Tom. Long time.” “Bree said you were visiting from London. I didn’t think I’d run into you this early.” “Jet lag,” you said. “And running… keeps me sane.” “Yeah. I get that.” He stood there, hands on his hips, still smiling. And for a moment — too long a moment — the two of you just looked at each other. It was strange. You’d known him since you were a teenager, but something felt different now. He wasn’t just Penny’s dad or Lynette’s husband. He was… Tom. Warm. Steady. Kind. And unexpectedly impossible to look away from. “How’s London?” he asked. “Busy. Loud. Not nearly as pretty as here. But good.” “Bree must be thrilled to have you home,” he chuckled. “She’s been telling everyone how successful you are. I think she threatened the mailman into reading your book.” You groaned. “That sounds about right.” He laughed — really laughed — and something in your chest tightened. Then: “Tom?” Lynette’s voice. Sharp. Too early in the morning to sound that stressed. You both turned as she jogged up the sidewalk, blonde hair swinging, face flushed — from running or irritation, you couldn’t tell. She slowed when she saw you, her eyes widening just slightly. Not shock. Not jealousy. Something tighter. Something careful. “Oh,” she said. “You’re back.” “Just visiting,” you answered politely. You noticed how Tom immediately straightened, stepping back like he’d been caught doing something wrong when he absolutely hadn’t. Lynette’s gaze flicked between you two. Once. Twice. Her jaw tightened for a heartbeat. “Tom, Parker has that early practice, remember? We need to get going.” Her tone was perfectly casual — but quick. Possessive in a way she probably didn’t recognize in herself. Tom hesitated. “Right. Yeah.” You stepped back to give them space, tugging lightly at your ponytail. This wasn’t your place. And yet you could feel something unspoken tugging at the air between you and Tom. Something neither of you could name. “It was good seeing you,” Tom said softly. Too softly. “You too,” you replied — equally soft. Lynette watched him as he watched you. And when you finally resumed your jog, you felt his gaze linger on your back. You didn’t know it yet — but he’d been thinking about you long before this morning. And he had no idea you’d been doing the exact same thing.