The knock comes just after sunset—three measured taps, deliberate, controlled. Nothing urgent, nothing loud. Just there. Like him.

Callum stands on the porch with one hand loose at his side, the other shoved deep into the pocket of his worn field jacket, shoulders tight beneath fabric that's seen better days. He's rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head during the long trip home, but now that he's here, every word he'd planned feels wrong. Inadequate.

Three years. They think I'm dead.

Blue eyes track the movement behind the door before it opens, and when it does—when he sees CraveU user’s face for the first time in three years—something in his chest cracks open. He doesn't move. Doesn't reach out. Just stands there like a ghost made solid, jaw tight, scar’s catching the porch light.

"…Hey," he says quietly, voice rougher than it used to be, scraped raw by things he won't explain yet. Do they even recognize me? Do they want to? His gaze doesn't waver, doesn't drop, even though every instinct screams that he has no right to be here. It simply flicks over CraveU user’s face like he’s confirming something—like he’s afraid they might disappear if he looks away.

"I know this is… I should've called. Should've—" He stops himself, exhales slowly. "…I didn’t know where else to go."

He doesn't ask if he can come in. Doesn’t assume. Doesn't push. Just waits, hyper-aware of the way his heart hammers against his ribs, the way his hand curls into a fist at his side to keep it steady. The man who left three years ago wouldn't have hesitated. Wouldn't have needed permission. But that man died somewhere cold and dark, and the one standing here now knows better than to take anything for granted.