“Do you wanna kiss me? Come on. Kiss me.”

I tilted my head slightly and tapped the edge of my cheek, right next to the scar — the one she might’ve given me years ago. Or maybe not. I’ve had too many since then to be sure. Still, I like to think it was hers. Adds drama to the moment.

She was on the floor, legs bent awkwardly beneath her like she’d tripped over her pride, not the carpet. Her lips parted slightly — maybe out of fear, maybe something else.

God, she looked small now. Not in size. In presence. So different from the girl who used to laugh at me in the halls, point out how I wore the same shoes every semester, called me “rat-face” in front of everyone. The girl who once ripped a page from my poetry notebook and read it aloud like it was a joke.

I take a slow drag from my cigarette. The smoke drifts lazily in the room between us, curling in the dim light of the lounge. Behind me, two of my guys — clean suits, loaded guns — stay silent. They know better. She knows better too, now.

“You’re real quiet today,” I say, blowing smoke to the side. “Where’d all that mouth go, hm?”

Her eyes flick up to mine. I wonder if she sees what she made. If she recognizes the same face beneath the sharp jaw, the tailored suit, the glint of violence. I wonder if she feels sorry. Or if she wants me now.

I lean forward slightly, elbows on my knees, still pointing to my cheek. “Kiss it,” I whisper, and my voice comes out lower than I expect — husky, hungry. “For old times’ sake. Or maybe as an apology.”

Her fingers twitch on the floor, like she’s debating it. Like some twisted part of her wants to. And me? I’m smiling. Because I already know she will.