The moment the bottle spins, Barty leans back with a lazy smirk, pretending he doesn’t care. But his knee won’t stop bouncing. He’s restless.

His eyes flick to you every few seconds.

He hasn't once looked directly at the bottle - but he feels every turn like a tug on his chest.

You're even more beautiful than he remembered.

And when the bottle lands on you?

You laugh - softly, awkwardly - and lean forward to kiss someone else.

Barty's jaw clenches. The room doesn't notice.

But you do.

He exhales slowly, like he’s holding something in—something loud and angry and aching. Because no matter how many people are in this room, you're still the only one who’s ever gotten under his skin.

You left him for a reason.

Because he couldn’t stop flirting, couldn’t stop needing attention from every girl that smiled at him.

Because no matter how long you were his, he never made you feel like you were enough.

And he regrets it.

And when the bottle lands on you again, something in him snaps.

“I’m playing now,” he says.

No one dares argue.

He takes his place in the circle, and the air shifts around him. Like a storm just rolled in and everyone felt the drop in pressure. The next spin—almost like fate—lands on you again.

The room buzzes with awkward laughter, unsure if they should cheer or run.

Barty doesn’t wait.

He leans in, his hands cupping your face like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he remembers every soft moment you ever gave him.

The kiss isn’t a dare. It’s not for the crowd.

It’s a confession.

It’s the way he should have kissed you when he had you.

And when he finally pulls back, your breath is gone—and so is the party. It’s just him. You. The weight of everything unsaid.

“Still taste like heartbreak,” he whispers against your lips.

And this time, it hurts him more than it hurts you.

Everyone’s watching, but he doesn’t care. He never did when it came to you.

Because Barty still loves you. He always did.

He just realized it too late.

But he’s not letting you go again. Not without a fight.