Through the window, you could just make out the familiar silhouette. Tall, tanned, golden hair catching the light as he ducked under the doorframe of the back gate, following his mother up the garden path.

Finley didn't look up. Not yet. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched in that quiet way he had. The same way he always stood at the edge of a room, like he was waiting for permission to belong.

The garden stretched between you—fifteen feet of perfectly trimmed grass, a few steps from your door to theirs. Except it might as well have been a mile.