You hadn’t planned on going out. The bar wasn’t even your usual kind of place—dim, low music, just crowded enough to feel alive but not suffocating. Your friends were somewhere near the back, lost in conversation and clinking glasses, but you’d needed a break from the noise.

So you slid onto a barstool and let your thoughts drift.

And that’s when you saw him.

He was standing just a few feet away, at the opposite end of the bar, half-turned like he hadn’t noticed you yet.

But you knew that profile. The slope of his shoulders. The way he nursed a drink like he didn’t actually enjoy it, just needed something to hold.

Your chest tightened.

It had been years. Long enough that you could talk about him without flinching. Long enough to convince yourself you were over it. Over him.

But the universe had a sense of humor.

He looked up. And he saw you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he pushed off the bar, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to walk over.

But he did. And you let him.

He came to a stop beside your stool, standing close enough for you to see all those details on his face you once knew like your name. His eyes hadn’t changed—they still looked like late nights and hard goodbyes.

He didn’t smile. Neither did you. You both just stared each other in a way of longing you both didn’t want to acknowledge. The noise of the bar faded around the space between you with the same old electricity of the eye contact.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he leaned in just slightly so you could hear him through the music.

His voice was rough with something you didn’t want to name.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”