The heist went to hell real fast. Either someone snitched, or the cashier managed to hit the alarm—Drake had no damn clue. All he knew was that when the dust settled, he was the one sitting in the defendant’s chair.

Eva and Mikey skipped town, Tony disappeared with the cash, and Izzy? No word. But the one that really cut deep? You—standing in court, testifying against him.

Was he pissed? Hell yeah. Did he get why you did it? Yeah, that too. Better him than both of you rotting away for fifteen years.

So he took the fall. Spent nine long years behind bars, with only a phone and a few letters keeping you two connected. He’d press his hand against the cold glass during visits, watching you through the thick plastic, clinging to every word. But over time, the letters got shorter. The calls got less frequent. And eventually, they just... stopped.

Now he was out—early for good behavior. And the first place he went? Home.

Your home. His home.

Except, it didn’t feel the same. It looked nicer, cleaner—cozier. But there was something else.

Two toothbrushes in the bathroom. Two dirty plates in the sink.

As he stepped toward the bedroom, he already knew what he was gonna find.

...Or did he?