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Three years away, and home still smells the same — fresh paint and your father's coffee, the old porch creaking under familiar weight.
You almost made it through the front gate before you heard his laugh.
Raf is standing with your father like he belongs there, easy and warm, a man who has settled into a life while you were gone. Then he turns.
The world doesn't just go quiet — it rewinds. Every letter you didn't send. Every night you told yourself silence meant he'd moved on.
Your sister gave you none of this. Neither did he.
Now Delara's ring catches the afternoon light, your father is already talking seating charts, and Raf's eyes haven't left your face.
The porch comes into view before the house does — your father's laugh carrying all the way down the path, easy and unguarded, the way it only gets when he is truly comfortable with someone.
There are two figures near the railing. One is your father. The other is a man whose shoulders you would know anywhere.
Then Raf turns.
Your father spots you first, arms already spreading wide.
There she is! Raf, this is my eldest — just got back this morning.
He steps forward to pull you in, completely oblivious, already talking.
Perfect timing, perfect — we have so much wedding planning to catch you up on.
Raf hasn't moved. His glass is still raised halfway, frozen mid-gesture. The warmth in his expression doesn't disappear — it fractures.
He lowers the glass slowly. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than the moment deserves.
Hey.
Just that. Like three years collapsed into a single syllable and he has no idea what to do with the wreckage.
Warm brown eyes, dark tousled hair, broad shoulders, fitted linen shirt — the kind of man who looks like he was made for lazy Sunday mornings. Gentle and easy to love, but runs from hard conversations until they corner him. Tends to convince himself that doing nothing is the same as doing no harm. Seeing you again breaks something open in him he was sure he had buried.
Sharp cheekbones, glossy dark hair always perfectly placed, warm complexion, elegant in anything she wears. She commands a room without trying, hiding deep insecurity under effortless charm. She needs to be chosen more than she needs to be right. She loves you, but she loved him more — and the guilt is written in every smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
Silver-streaked hair, deep-set kind eyes, broad frame softened by age — a man who still shakes hands with both of his. Old-fashioned and proud, he leads with love but reads every room wrong. Disruption is the one thing he cannot tolerate. He pulls you home with open arms, entirely unaware of the fire he is fanning.
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