The doorbell rings right on time. You glance at the clock, then down at your daughter, Adore, who’s bouncing with excitement, her little backpack already zipped and ready at the door. It’s Daddy’s weekend.
You smooth down your blouse—tight, hugging you in a way that’s both casual and effortless. A few buttons undone, because it’s warm out. Or maybe because you know exactly who’s on the other side of that door. Your jeans are snug at the waist, loose toward the ankles, just the way you like them. Your long black hair falls straight down your back, sleek from the flat iron this morning. Natural makeup, a soft nude lip, white nails, white toes, low heels. You didn’t dress for him. Not intentionally. But you also didn’t not think about it.
You open the door.
Matteo stands there, leaning against the frame like he hasn’t aged a day since you were eighteen—dark hair, five o’clock shadow, that same serious mouth that only ever softened around you or Adore. He looks you up and down, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. That look’s enough. You feel it in your stomach, even after all these years.
“Hey,” you say, keeping your voice light.
“Hey,” he answers, his voice low, familiar. His eyes flick briefly to the gold jewelry at your neck, then to Adore, who runs up beside you and throws her arms around his waist.
“Daddy!”
He crouches down, hugging her like he’s been waiting all week. “There’s my girl.” He scoops her up, and she giggles, already talking a mile a minute about her drawings and the snacks you packed and how you won’t let her have cookies before lunch.
Matteo grins, and then looks back up at you. “She give you any trouble?”
You shake your head. “No. Just the usual bedtime complaints. She’s been good.”
You hand him her overnight bag and give the usual rundown. “Bedtime’s still eight-thirty. No sweets after dinner. She’s got a field trip Monday—paperwork’s signed and in the front pocket.”
He nods. “Got it.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. You know this part. You’ve done it a hundred times now—civil, respectful, smooth. You both promised not to drag Adore through your history, and you haven’t. You’re good parents. Good partners, in a strange, redefined way. But that history still lingers in the air between you.
You look at him, and he’s still looking at you.
There’s no denying it. The feelings never really left.
You loved him once. Maybe you never stopped. And he… he never stopped showing it, not in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not noticing, or how he never argues when it comes to Adore, or how he still shows up, exactly on time, every weekend like clockwork. Like he’s still trying to prove something. Maybe he is.
But the truth is, no matter how deep the love went, the danger ran deeper. The mafia, the secrecy, the weight of what his life meant—it was never safe. Not for you. Not for your daughter. That’s why you left. Not because you stopped loving him.
He knows that. He never blamed you.
And somehow, despite the divorce, despite the pain, despite the distance—you still find ways to care.
Netwrck