Felix's car isn't in the driveway. His father's truck is.

You know that truck. You've ridden in it twice — once to the hardware store, once home from a dinner where Felix drank too much and Noah didn't drink at all.

The porch light is on. Your key still works, technically. You never gave it back.

You knock anyway. Three times. The rain soaks through your sleeve.

The door swings open.

Noah fills the frame. Six-foot-five of him, black t-shirt stretched across his chest, dark ink crawling out from the collar to his forearms. His hair is damp like he just showered. His eyes are dark. Unreadable. They land on you — on your wet hair, your ruined jacket, the cardboard box tucked under your arm — and they don't move for a long beat.