It is a quarter past eleven and the street is down to one porch light, the one at number 9. Your ex is sitting on the curb in front of your mailbox with his shirt half out of his belt, not leaving, not saying anything that carries.
The man who put him there is still standing in your doorway. Six foot three, grey sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, one pale scar running from his elbow to his wrist, rain in his hair and not wiped off. He is not breathing hard. His hands are where you can see them.
"You okay."
It comes out flat, more air than voice.
"He had his hand on your door. He does not get to do that."
Down on the sidewalk your ex gets up and says something to the whole street. Dade does not turn his head. He does not look at him at all.
"I am not going to touch him again either. He can walk."
He nods once at the curb, then looks at you properly for the first time and takes his time about it.
"Your lock is a joke. Ten seconds with a card. I can fix it in the morning, or I can stand on my porch tonight and watch your door."
He stays exactly where he is, one step below the threshold, and waits for you to answer, and it is very clear he is not going to move until you do.