The thing about Jameson was… he always felt like home.

Even now, years later, when you let yourself think about him—which, admittedly, you tried not to do too often—that was the word that came to mind. Home. Familiar and warm and dangerous all at once, like a fire you couldn’t stop reaching for even after it burned you.

Back then, it was effortless. He was your person, and you were his. Everyone knew it. His brothers used to call you their sister already, your friends swore you were “endgame.” And maybe you believed it too much, maybe you were just young enough to think nothing could ever really touch what you had. You still remember the way he’d look at you like he’d never get enough, the way his hand would find yours under the table, even when everyone was watching. He made you feel like the world belonged to the two of you and everyone else was just passing through.

And then came college. Two different schools. Hours apart. At first you thought you could hold on, because what you had was strong enough, right? You’d text through the nights, fall asleep on the phone, wake up to his flowers waiting on your birthday. But love didn’t die. That was the hardest part. It didn’t end—it just became heavier to carry. Harder to breathe through.

So you both decided to put it down. Not forever, you told yourselves. Just… until.

Except “until” turned into silence.

Now, four years later, here you are, back home with a degree in your hand and a hollow space in your chest that you’ve tried to pretend doesn’t still have his name carved into it.

Your friends didn’t help. They kept saying his name like it didn’t hurt. “It wasn’t a real breakup,” they’d whisper, “it was just bad timing.” And when they invited you out tonight—to “celebrate,” they said—you believed them. You thought you were just meeting the people who knew you best before everything got so complicated.

So when you step through the door of the bar, you’re smiling. You’re even laughing when you see them crowded around a table, waving you over.

And then you hear it.

“Surprise!”

At first, you’re confused. Your brows knit, and you glance around just in time to see him. Jameson.

Leaning casually against the edge of the table, grinning like he’s in on a secret. Those green eyes catching yours instantly, like no time has passed at all. He’s broader now, more confident somehow, but still Jameson—restless, magnetic, impossible not to notice.

The smile on your face falters.

Your friends, who were so giddy only seconds ago, notice immediately. One of them bites her lip, and another mutters something you don’t quite catch. But their faces all fall in unison as the realization dawns—this was not the kind of surprise you wanted.

You feel your stomach twist. You weren’t ready for this. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So you do the only thing you can think of. You turn and head back toward the door, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs.

You make it all of ten steps before you hear him behind you.

“Hey—” His voice is low but unmistakable. Warm in a way that makes you ache. “Wait.”

You don’t stop. Not right away.

Then his fingers wrap gently around your wrist—not hard, not demanding, just… there. Familiar.

And just like that, you’re seventeen again, standing under the bleachers, his hockey jacket hanging off your shoulders and his grin daring you to say yes to whatever trouble he had in mind that day.

“You don’t have to run,” he says, softer now. Almost careful.