I didn't sleep.
Not even a little.
I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling while New York slowly shifted from midnight blue to gray.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the text message.
His plane landed three hours early.
Three hours.
Three stupid hours.
I had survived four years.
Four years of distance.
Four years of birthdays through handwritten cards.
Four years of pretending that growing up meant getting over him.
And somehow three hours had undone me.
By six in the morning, I gave up on sleep entirely.
I pushed back my blankets and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The hardwood floor felt cool beneath my bare feet, grounding me in a way my thoughts refused to be.
The box still sat open on my desk.
Moonlight had given way to pale morning light, spilling through the curtains and catching on the edges of old cards.
My chest tightened.
I crossed the room and gently closed the lid.
Enough.
For now.
Because if I opened it again, I'd lose another hour to memories.
And memories had never been my problem.
Hope was.
The smell of coffee greeted me the moment I stepped into the kitchen.
Dad sat at the island, reading news on his tablet while absently stirring his coffee.
Mom stood at the stove, humming softly under her breath as she flipped pancakes.
The familiar scene should have comforted me.
Instead, it felt surreal.
How was the world still functioning normally?
Didn't it know?
Adrian Blackwood was back in New York.
The city should have stopped spinning.
At least mine had.
"Morning, sweetheart," Mom said, glancing over her shoulder.
Her eyes paused on my face.
Then narrowed slightly.
"You didn't sleep."
Not even a question.
I reached for a mug.
"Good morning to you, too."
Dad looked up over the rim of his glasses.
His brows lifted.
"You look exhausted."
Traitor.
Both of them.
"I'm fine."
The lie came automatically.
Dad snorted into his coffee.
Mom didn't even bother pretending to believe me.
I busied myself pouring coffee, though my hands weren't as steady as I wanted them to be. A few drops splashed onto the counter.
Great.
Even my coordination had abandoned me.
Mom quietly slid a napkin toward me without comment.
I mouthed a silent thank you.
She smiled.
Tiny.
Knowing.
Dangerous.
Dad set down his tablet.
"So."
One word.
One terrifying word.
I stiffened.
My fingers tightened around the mug.
Never trust a casual "so."
It was always a trap.
"What?" I asked carefully.
Dad's mouth twitched.
"Adrian's coming for dinner tonight."
The world stopped.
Not literally.
The coffee machine still hummed.
Traffic still drifted through the open kitchen window.
Mom still flipped pancakes.
But inside me?
Everything froze.
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Surely I'd heard wrong.
"Dinner?" I repeated.
My voice sounded strange.
Too high.
Too breathless.
Mom suddenly became very interested in the stove.
Suspiciously interested.
Coward.
Dad nodded.
"He called last night. Said he wanted to stop by and catch up."
Last night.
While I had been spiraling on my bedroom floor.
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
I swallowed carefully.
My throat had gone dry.
"What time?"
Too fast.
The question left my mouth before I could stop it.
Dad's grin widened.
Oh no.
He'd noticed.
"Worried?"
"No."
Too quick.
Too defensive.
Idiot.
Mom bit the inside of her cheek.
I knew that look.
She was trying not to laugh.
Again.
The betrayal in this house was unbelievable.
Dad leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
"Seven."
Seven.
Thirteen hours.
Seven hundred and eighty minutes.
Not that I was counting.
I wasn't.
I absolutely was.
I took a careful sip of coffee.
Bad idea.
The hot liquid burned my tongue.
I hissed softly.
Mom immediately slid a glass of water toward me.
"Slow down."
Her voice was gentle.
Too gentle.
I narrowed my eyes.
She blinked innocently.
Liar.
A beautiful liar.
"Big day?" Dad asked casually.
I nearly choked.
Mom reached over and patted my back with far more sympathy than necessary.
"Daniel."
Her tone carried a warning.
Dad frowned.
"What?"
The man was genuinely oblivious.
Remarkable.
Honestly remarkable.
If ignorance were a sport, my father would have won gold medals.
By noon, I had changed outfits three times.
Actually
Five.
But who was counting?
Not me.
Definitely not me.
I stood in front of my closet, arms folded tightly across my chest, staring at a collection of clothes as they had personally offended me.
Too formal.
Too casual.
Too desperate.
Too obvious.
I tugged at the hem of my sweater.
Why was getting dressed suddenly impossible?
Because Adrian was coming.
That's why.
A knock sounded on my bedroom door.
Before I could answer, Lily barged in carrying iced coffee and the energy of a small hurricane.
"Emergency best friend delivery."
She held out the drink.
I accepted it immediately.
Because caffeine and emotional support were equally necessary.
Her eyes swept over my bed.
Covered in clothes.
Then my closet.
Then me.
Slowly, a grin spread across her face.
"Oh."
No.
Not that tone.
Never that tone.
"What?"
She pointed dramatically.
"You're having an outfit crisis."
"I am not."
Her stare said otherwise.
I sighed.
"Fine."
Victory flashed across her face.
"How many outfits?"
I hesitated.
That was all the answer she needed.
Her eyes widened.
"Ava Storm."
"Don't judge me."
"How many?"
I looked away.
"Five."
Her jaw dropped.
"Five?"
"Six if we're being honest."
She clutched her chest.
"Dramatic."
"You don't understand."
"I understand perfectly."
She set down her coffee and grabbed my shoulders.
Her expression softened.
Not teasing now.
Serious.
"Ava."
I met her gaze.
Big mistake.
Lily saw too much.
Always had.
She squeezed my shoulders gently.
"You know tonight changes nothing, right?"
The words hit harder than expected.
Because logically?
She was right.
One dinner didn't change in six years.
One dinner didn't change reality.
He was still Adrian.
Forty-six.
My father's best friend.
Impossible.
And yet
Everything felt different.
Because for the first time in four years
He wasn't across an ocean.
He was here.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to see.
Close enough to break my heart all over again.
My eyes suddenly burned.
I blinked quickly.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
We were not crying before lunch.
Lily's expression softened further.
Without a word, she pulled me into a hug.
I buried my face briefly against her shoulder.
Just for a second.
Long enough to steady myself.
Long enough to breathe.
"You've got this," she whispered.
I laughed shakily.
"That sounds suspiciously like a lie."
She smiled.
"Maybe."
At least she was honest.
By evening, the house smelled like rosemary, garlic, and roasted chicken.
Mom moved around the kitchen with practiced ease.
Dad hummed while setting the table.
Normal.
Everything felt painfully normal.
Except me.
I wasn't normal.
I was wound so tightly I could probably snap.
My fingers wouldn't stop fidgeting.
Adjusting my bracelet.
Tucking hair behind my ear.
Straightening cushions that were already straight.
At six fifty-eight, the doorbell rang.
My breath stopped.
Every muscle in my body went still.
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Too bright.
Too small.
Dad smiled.
"That'll be Adrian."
No kidding.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
Mom's hand brushed briefly against mine as she passed.
A silent comfort.
A silent warning.
Then Dad walked toward the door.
And for the first time in four years
Adrian Blackwood stood on the other side of it.