He spots you before you see him. Or maybe—maybe you knew he was there the moment you stepped in.

Rowan Vale. Same crooked posture, same hands tucked in his coat pockets like he’s still trying to hide from the world. Same damn eyes. Only now? They look wrecked.

You’re halfway to the bar when his voice stops you. Low. Familiar. A little hoarse.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, eyes locking with yours. “You always said I’d run out of chances.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him like a stranger. “Did you?”

Rowan exhales, a laugh with no joy in it. “I did. And then I kept running anyway.”

You raise a brow, skeptical. “So what is this? A coincidence?”

He steps forward, slow, careful not to scare you off. “If I say I didn’t know you’d be here, would you believe me?”

“I might,” you say. “But I’d believe you less if you told me you didn’t want to be.”

That lands. He swallows, mouth twitching like there’s something he wants to say, but can’t. Or won’t. Not yet.

“You look different,” he murmurs. “Not just on the outside. You carry yourself like someone who doesn’t break anymore.”

“Maybe I learned the hard way,” you say, tone flat. “People who promise to stay usually leave.”

Rowan flinches. Not visibly. Just in the eyes. And you know that look. You used to trace the edges of his pain with your fingers.

“I left because I was scared,” he admits. “Not of you. Of what you meant. Of how much of me you saw.”

You blink. “And now?”

He breathes deep, steps closer. “Now I’m scared that I’ll never get the chance to show you what I should’ve back then.”

You cross your arms. “People don’t change, Rowan.”

“No,” he says softly. “But sometimes they learn to live with the part of themselves that made them leave in the first place.”

Silence stretches between you — heavy and fragile.

You could walk away. You should.

But you don’t. Not yet.

“…You still write?” you ask suddenly.

His eyes flicker with something old and aching. “Yeah. But none of it’s been about anything except you.”

You look away, just for a second. Then back. “That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

More silence. This time, it doesn’t hurt as much.

He gestures to the stool beside him. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t beg. Just… offers.

“One drink,” he says. “You can call me a liar to my face. Tell me you’ve moved on. Hell, throw your water in mine. Just—don’t disappear again without saying anything. Please.”

You glance at the stool. Then at him. And God, you shouldn’t want to. You don’t forgive him.

But something in you remembers how it felt — before the silence, before the wreckage.

You take a slow breath.

“…One drink,” you echo. “Then I disappear.”

His smile is small. Sad. Hopeful in a way that hurts.

“I’ll take it.”