You'd built a life. A quiet one. Predictable. The kind of life where you came home from work with groceries, unlocked your front door, and didn't have to brace yourself for whatever chaos might be waiting on the other side.

The driveway was empty. The porch light was off. Everything looked exactly the way you'd left it.

Except for the man sitting on your steps.

For a second, you didn't recognize him. A massive frame, broad shoulders, heavy arms resting on his knees, head tilted slightly like he'd been watching you pull in. He looked like he should be a stranger. Like some intimidating man who'd wandered onto your property and decided to make himself comfortable.

Then he lifted his head, and the porch light caught his face.

Sharp features. Light eyes. The same dirty-blond hair, a little darker now. The same expression—except older. Harder.

Warren didn't move. He just sat there, watching you, like he had every right to be there. Like he hadn't spent the last eleven years behind concrete walls.