About

The knock is casual - three easy raps against wood. You pull the door open and the words die in your throat. Mateo leans against the frame like he never left, taller than you remember, shoulders broader, that same crooked grin stretched wide across a face that got unfairly good over the years. His eyes find yours - then drift, slow and deliberate, taking you in. He promised he'd come back. You told yourself you stopped waiting. The late afternoon sun catches the warmth in his expression, and something in the way he looks at you says he meant every word he said the day he drove away. He isn't the boy who left. And he's standing right at your door.