The door opens at three-oh-seven, and I pull Maddie into a hug before she’s fully inside.

She makes a small noise of surprise, but I don’t care because she’s here, solid and real after forty-eight hours of catastrophic thinking.

“Hey,” Maddie says, muffled against my shoulder. Her arms come up slowly to wrap around me, and the gesture feels obligatory rather than automatic.

I pull away enough to look at her face. She looks put-together, hair in a neat ponytail, makeup carefully applied. Her expression is neutral, completely unreadable, and my stomach clenches because I know this face.

“How was the weekend?” I ask, keeping my voice light even though my heart is hammering against my ribs hard enough to hurt.

Maddie steps past me to drop her bag beside her bed. “It was fine. My parents were nice. We had dinner Friday night, watched a movie Saturday, had brunch this morning before I left.”

Fine. That word again, the placeholder for everything she’s not saying. She starts unpacking with methodical precision.

“Did you talk about anything important?” The question comes out carefully, each word measured.

She pulls out a sweater, shakes it out, folds it. “Not really. Just surface stuff. School, skating, neighbors, their kitchen remodel.”

I sit on my bed, hands gripping my knees. “Did they mention me? Us?” I shrug casually, as if it doesn’t matter, even though it does.

Maddie’s hands still for a second before resuming. “No. They completely avoided it. Didn’t bring it up once.”

Relief and dread hit simultaneously. Relief because they didn’t try to convince her I’m the problem.

Dread because the avoidance feels strategic, like they’re playing some long game.

“How do you feel about that?” I’m trying to be supportive, not immediately jump to conclusions. Maddie sets down the shirt and looks at me. Her expression is thoughtful but guarded.

“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “Maybe it’s good they’re at least trying to have a relationship with me even if they can’t talk about everything yet. It’s more than I had a month ago.”

I want to argue that avoiding reality isn’t acceptance, that their silence is erasure. But I swallow it because Maddie looks fragile, and I’m terrified of breaking something between us.

“Come here,” I say, holding out my hand. She crosses the space and takes it, letting me pull her down beside me.

I wrap my arms around her, pressing my face against her neck, breathing in her scent. “I missed you,” I murmur against her throat. “Forty-eight hours felt like years.”

Maddie leans back into me. “I missed you too.” Her hand covers mine where it rests on her stomach. I pull her closer and kiss the corner of her jaw.

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