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Levi’s standing in the middle of my living room.

“Who was that?” he asks, his voice eerily calm.

My hand flies to my chest. “How did you get in?”

“Back door.”

“The back door was locked.”

He shrugs.

“That was a temporary problem.” His gaze stays on mine, sharp and unsettled. “Who was that?”

For one confused second, I don’t understand. Then I do.

“My son,” I say.

Something shifts in his face immediately. His jaw loosens a fraction, and his shoulders drop like he has been holding himself braced for a fight.

“Oh.”

I fold my arms. “What, you thought I brought a man home?”

“No.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“At first, I thought it might be your son.”

“At first?”

His eyes flick away, then back to me. “Then I started thinking other things.”

For a second, I just stare at him.

He looks almost angry, but not at me. At himself. Like he knows breaking into my house to demand answers is insane, and somehow that still wasn’t enough to stop him.

It should annoy me. It does. But beneath the irritation, something warm and foolish moves through my chest. Because he’s standing in my living room, jealous and unsettled, with no idea what to do with any of it.

And for some reason, I find that a little sweet.

“Why didn’t you just knock on the front door?” I ask. “Come say hello like a normal person?”

He looks down, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.

“Dunno.”

I take a long breath, still watching him, and then I remember the message he sent me earlier.

“Thinking about me makes you feel like there’s something wrong with you?” I ask.

A flush creeps up his neck. He swallows hard, looking almost pained by the question.

“Was trying to say…” He falters, searching for the words. “No one’s ever fucked with my head the way you do.”

I stare at him.

He is so far off the mark it is almost funny, but he is trying. Clumsily. Painfully. In the most Levi way imaginable.