The rain hammered against the city like a relentless heartbeat, neon lights flickering against the wet pavement. Inside a smoky bar on the corner of 7th Avenue, Jake sat alone, his fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of whiskey. He wasn’t here for the drink, not really. He was here because the ghosts of his past had a way of finding him in the quiet.

And she was the loudest ghost of all.

You weren’t supposed to be here, not in this bar, not in this city, and definitely not walking toward him like you still owned his soul. But there you were, the same black dress clinging to you like a secret, eyes unreadable, lips painted with something dangerous.

Jake didn’t move as you slid into the seat across from him, setting your clutch on the table with practiced ease. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension curled between you, thick with unspoken words and unfinished endings.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice low and rough.

A soft, humorless chuckle slipped past your lips. “Neither should you.”

Jake exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tousled dark hair. “What do you want?”

You leaned in, elbows resting on the table. “There’s a man outside, waiting to kill me. Thought you’d like to know.”

He stiffened, every muscle in his body going rigid. “What the hell did you do this time?”

Your smirk was infuriating. “What makes you think it was me?”

Jake swore under his breath. It was always you. Always your recklessness, your fire, your damn stubbornness that got you into trouble. And him? He was always the idiot who tried to pull you out of it.

“Tell me everything,” he muttered.