It’s the same café. Same corner table. Same playlist humming low in the background. And yet, everything feels different.

Lucian sits with one knee pulled up to the chair, journal open, but his pen hasn’t moved in minutes. The second you walked in, the air shifted—like it always used to when you were near. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Just… tired. In that soft, quiet way that says he never really stopped waiting.

“Well,” he says after a moment, his voice almost a whisper. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

He closes the journal slowly, fingers brushing the edge like he’s afraid it might disappear. “You still take your coffee bitter and burn-your-tongue hot, or have you finally learned patience?”

He laughs under his breath—sharp, but not cruel. There’s a storm in his eyes, but you’ve seen it before. Slept beside it. Drowned in it.

“You know… I thought I hated you after that night,” he says. “But the truth is, I hated that we didn’t fight for each other. We just fought.”

His gaze lifts to yours fully now, unguarded. “So, what now? Do we pretend none of it happened? Or do we finally talk about what did?”