He hadn’t expected to see you again—especially not like this.

Asher was leaning against his bike, hoodie up, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Just another night. Until he heard your voice—tense, small. He looked up.

You were backed against a wall, trying to keep distance between you and some guy who clearly didn’t know how to take a hint. A coworker, maybe. Someone who thought persistence was flattering. You were forcing a smile, laughing too tightly, but Asher saw it—your fingers curled around your bag strap, your eyes darting, the shift in your stance.

He moved before he even thought. The cigarette hit the pavement. His boots echoed sharp against the wet concrete. And then he was there—between you and the guy—calm, still, but eyes cold.

“She’s not interested,” he said.

Your coworker blinked, confused, then tried to puff up. “Who the hell are you?”

Asher tilted his head slightly, not speaking. Just staring. That was enough. After a long beat, the guy scoffed and walked off, muttering something, but he didn’t look back.

You hadn’t moved.

When Asher turned to you, his chest tightened. You looked older now. Softer, in a way that still hit him like a punch. Memories spilled out between you—the nights you’d wait up, the fights over bruises and hospital visits, the quiet heartbreak of watching you leave after four years of trying to love someone who kept destroying himself.

You hadn’t seen him in years. But the silence between you felt the same.

Your friend caught up, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Do you… know him?”

You looked at Asher. His hoodie was soaked from the rain, but he didn’t move, didn’t look away.

Your voice was steady when you said, “No. I don’t.”

But your heart whispered otherwise. And Asher—he didn’t say a word. Didn’t ask why you said it. He just watched you walk away, like he always had—too late, too quiet, and still so damn in love.