The porch swing creaked under Darius's weight as he sat through the long afternoon, boots back on, one foot propped against the railing. The sun had slid west, painting the street in long stripes of gold and shadow. Heat still pressed down, thick and unhurried, but a faint breeze moved through the geraniums in their clay pot, carrying the sweet-sharp scent of the red blooms mixed with fresh-cut grass from next door.
He hadn't moved much since Mom left for her shift. Just sat, letting the cicadas fill the quiet, letting his mind circle back to the journal entries he'd skimmed and the ones he still couldn't bring himself to touch. Every time the urge came to go back upstairs and open the box again, his hand stayed flat on his thigh.
A soft knock on the screen door broke the stillness.
He turned his head. Through the mesh he saw Amara Voss standing on the top step, holding a foil-covered pie tin, a small, nervous half-smile on her lips. She wore a simple sundress the color of fresh lavender, thin straps over her shoulders, the skirt swaying just above her knees in the breeze. Her chestnut hair fell in loose waves past her collarbones, catching the late light like warm wood. She looked the same as she had at eighteen—only softer now, fuller in the hips and chest, like the years had settled on her instead of wearing her down.
"Darius Kane," she said, voice low and melodic, trailing off at the end like she was asking a question even when she wasn't. "You gonna let me stand out here and melt, or what?"
He stood. The swing groaned behind him. "Door's unlocked."
She stepped inside, kicking off her sandals at the threshold so her bare feet padded quietly on the porch boards. Up close she smelled like garden soil after watering and something floral—maybe the jasmine vines that still climbed the back fence of her parents' old place.
She held out the pie tin. "Brought you something. Peach. Made it this morning. Figured you'd be hungry after your mom's cooking."
He took it. The tin was still warm through the foil. "Thanks."
She bit her lower lip—the same quick, nervous habit he remembered from when they were kids, when she'd hesitate before saying something important. "Can I… sit for a minute?"
He nodded toward the swing. "Yeah."
They sat. The chains creaked as she settled beside him, close enough that her knee brushed his thigh through the denim. She smoothed the skirt over her legs, fingers lingering on the fabric like she needed an anchor.
"Been a while," she said.
"Three years. Almost four."
She nodded, eyes on the street. "I heard you were coming home. Your mom told me last week. Said you got hurt."
He grunted. "Yeah."
She turned her head then, really looked at him. Her eyes were the same hazel-green he remembered, flecked with gold in the sunlight. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want."
"I don't."
"Okay." She didn't push. Just sat there, letting the silence stretch like she had nowhere else to be. After a minute she spoke again, softer. "I waited, you know."
The words landed heavy in his chest. "I know."
"I mean… I didn't date anybody. Didn't even try. Just… waited." She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. "Sounds stupid when I say it out loud."
"It don't sound stupid."
She glanced at him sideways. "You sure?"
He looked straight ahead, at the picket fence and the slow-moving clouds. "Yeah. I'm sure."
They sat quiet for a while. A pickup rumbled past, kicking up dust. Somewhere down the block a dog barked once, half-hearted.
Amara shifted, her bare foot brushing the side of his boot. "You gonna stay?"
"For now."
She nodded. "Good."
He finally looked at her. Really looked. The gentle curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. The way the dress clung just slightly to her skin from the heat. The faint freckles across her nose that only appeared in summer. She was beautiful in a way that ached, because she'd waited and he'd come back carrying pieces that didn't quite fit anymore.
"You still work at the flower shop?" he asked.
"Yeah. Own it now. Bought it off Mrs. Hargrove when she retired."
He raised an eyebrow. "You always did like growing things."
She smiled, small and real. "Still do. Garden's bigger than it used to be. Come by sometime. I'll show you."
"Maybe."
She stood, brushing her hands down her dress. "I should get back. Got deliveries tomorrow morning early."
He stood too. The swing rocked empty behind them.
She hesitated on the top step, turned back. "Darius?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're home."
He didn't have words for that, so he just nodded.
She smiled again—soft, a little sad—and started down the walk. Her hips swayed naturally under the lavender fabric, catching the last of the sunlight. At the sidewalk she slipped her sandals back on, gave him one last glance over her shoulder, then turned toward her place two streets over.
He watched until she disappeared around the corner.
Then he went inside, pie tin still warm in his hands.
The kitchen smelled like cooling pastry and sugar when he set it on the counter. He peeled back the foil. Golden crust, lattice top, peaches glistening underneath, juice pooling in the cracks.
He cut a slice—bigger than he should have.
Sat at the table alone.
Took a bite.
It tasted like summer. Like home. Like something he'd forgotten he was still allowed to want.
Outside, the cicadas kept their steady song.
And for the first time since he stepped off that bus, the ache in his shoulder felt just a little smaller.