He's standing there in jeans and a worn casual jacket, wearing that calm, steady expression he always has—like nothing in the world could shake him. Like showing up unannounced at my door is the most natural thing in the world.

He tilts his head, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. "What, no hello?"

"What are you doing here?" The words tumble out before I can stop them.

Panic rises in my throat.

"Is everything okay? Nora? Ollie? Kat?" My voice tightens with each name. "Did something happen?"

David laughs, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Everyone's fine," he says, his tone easy and warm. "I was in town for work and thought I'd stop by."

Work? He's a lecturer at a university three states away.

What kind of "work" brings him here?

I narrow my eyes, but he doesn't flinch, brushing past my suspicion with practiced ease.

His eyes scan my face, taking in the bruises, the busted lip, the faint discoloration spreading across my jaw. The faint crease in his forehead deepens, and I see it—sadness. It's subtle, buried beneath his usual composure, but it's there, clear as day.

For a moment, he doesn't say anything, and I brace myself for the questions I know he wants to ask.

But instead, he shifts his weight, tilts his head slightly, and says, "Are you hungry?" like this is any other day, like I'm any other kid he's checking up on.

I blink, caught off guard by the normalcy of the question. "Uh… I guess?"

"Good," he says, clapping me on the back. "Let's grab something to eat. I’m starving.”

The drive-thru burger joint is quiet, a welcome change from the chaos I've been drowning in. David orders for both of us with the kind of certainty that comes from years of family dinners and shared meals. He slides the bag onto the seat between us before driving to a nearby park. We find a picnic table under an ancient oak tree, its branches spreading out like protective arms above us. The only sounds are distant laughter from kids on the playground and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

As we sit, I catch sight of a dad helping his little girl climb a slide. When she reaches the top, he cheers like she's just scaled Everest. She laughs, pure joy radiating from her small face as she throws her arms around his neck, and they slide down together.

My chest tightens with an ache that has nothing to do with my injuries.

I never had that.

Maybe I did once, in some distant past I can't remember, but those memories are buried so deep under years of yelling and bruises and broken promises that they might as well not exist.

David follows my gaze, his expression softening.

"I remember when Nora was that small," he says, his tone warm with nostalgia. "That little girl never feared anything."