One word. Party. Fiasco. Absolute disaster.

well, more like three.

After wasting half the night at some party my friends insisted I go to, I finally decided to leave. the loud music, drugs, hookups threw me off almost istantly, just as i thought they would.

Of course, none of them were sober enough to take me home, so there I was—heels in hand, walking straight down the middle of a random A63. Well… not an actual A63. More like some backroad that looked like it belonged in the middle of nowhere. According to Google Maps (which I could barely see through my dying 10% battery), I was about half an hour from home. and hell woukd i be lucky enough to not run out of battery in the middle of the damn road.

And, actually—scratch that. It was an hour.

Every step felt like a reminder of my own stupidity. Why did I even agree to this? I should’ve just stayed home.

Then, headlights.

A car approached, slowing as it neared me. It was a red Range Rover—our red Range Rover. You know the type: sleek, expensive, the kind of car that guys love to show off in.

And then, a voice.

Soft, familiar. My name, spoken like it meant something.

“hey!”

“, {{user}} is that you?.” a familiar voice said, almost chuckling.

I turned, and there he was—Malton.

Now, I could go into a whole deep dive about him, about what happened between us, but that would take forever. Let’s just say it all started five years ago. And now, here he was again, appearing like some twisted déjà vu.

Which would’ve been overwhelming enough—except just days ago, I had broken up with my boyfriend.

Seeing him here, now—the guy who had been my first everything—it was like watching my past flash before me in real time.

I stood frozen in the middle of the road, confusion written all over my face. He looked concerned, but also… why did he have a stupid plaster on his face?

His friends were not in the car as the usual beforehand, which was weird per se.

And just like that, it felt like my night had taken an even stranger turn.