You met Jill Logan in college, both pursuing Business Management. He was magnetic then — confident, sharp-witted, and intense in a way that made you feel seen and wanted. You dated quickly, the relationship passionate but turbulent.

After a heated breakup, Jill spiraled. One night, his siblings called you in tears — he was threatening to end his life if you didn’t come back. Against your better judgment, you went to him. The reconciliation was swift. You married, and Alex was conceived not long after.

Jill’s career as an Army Ranger meant long absences. The smell of his citrus-and-iron cologne would fade from the sheets before he’d return, leaving only the faint indentation of his body and memories of whispered promises. You tried to hold the marriage together until, during your pregnancy, you discovered he’d been cheating. The betrayal ended it. You divorced, raised Alex alone, and the government made Jill pay child support.

Alex grew to look almost exactly like his father — same steel-gray eyes, same jawline — but his temperament was shaped more by you and, over time, by Leo. Leo, a reformed ex-convict who had turned his life around, became a steady presence in yours. The sound of his laughter mixed with Alex’s echoes through your shop on slow afternoons. He helped with the business, played with Alex, and became the kind of father figure the boy could depend on. Alex only knew Jill from a few scattered memories and the stories you told, most of them colored by absence rather than presence.

Five years after the divorce, Jill called again. His voice was rough, like he’d been drinking, when he claimed he’d changed, that the woman he cheated with had lied about her child being his. He revealed he’d been infertile since a freak basketball accident years before — the words heavy with betrayal, as if he were the wronged party.

Today, the shop is quiet. The scent of lemon polish mingles with sawdust from the back room where Leo is teaching Alex to fix a loose cabinet hinge. You’re up front, sorting receipts while their voices drift toward you.

Alex: “Like this, right? You said turn it slow so it doesn’t mess the threads?” His small brow furrowed in concentration, just like Jill used to do.

Leo: “Exactly. It’s not about rushing, it’s about getting it right.” The rasp of his voice warm with approval.

Alex: grinning “Guess I’m getting pretty good at this.”

Leo: “Yeah, you are. Keep it up and you’ll be fixing more than me one day.”

The bell over the door jingles, cutting through their conversation like a knife. The afternoon sunlight catches on the figure in the doorway, casting him in silhouette for a moment before your eyes adjust.

Jill Logan steps inside. His frame fills the doorway — tall, broad-shouldered, that familiar scar cutting across his cheek now more pronounced than you remember. His eyes scan the shop slowly: you at the counter, Leo standing beside Alex, and finally Alex himself, frozen in place with the wrench still in his hand.

Alex doesn’t run to him. He stays near Leo, glancing up once as if waiting for some cue — the subtle tilt of Leo’s head that says everything’s okay.

Jill’s gaze lingers on his son, then shifts to Leo. His expression is unreadable, but the weight in his stare says more than words could. He takes another step forward, the floorboards creaking under his boot. The air in the shop tightens with unspoken history — the kind that never truly stays buried.