You weren’t really paying attention when your friend mentioned her name.

“Lauren’s coming. She’s the one I told you about the tattoo artist, super cool. You’ll like her.”

You nodded, half-distracted, sipping your drink as the bar’s warm noise buzzed around you conversations overlapping with clinking glasses and low, ambient music. Another friend-of-a-friend situation. You weren’t expecting much. Definitely not a shift in gravity.

But then she walked in. Boots hitting the wood floor. Leather jacket shrugged off one shoulder. Dark long hair with intricate tattoos snaking down her arms. Your friend stood to greet her, casual. You just stared.

Because you knew her. Lauren. From school. From the background. From the art room, where she used to hunch over her sketchbook and act like the rest of the world didn’t exist. She wasn’t loud back then. Didn’t dress to impress. You remember chipped nail polish, oversized hoodies, sharp eyes behind bangs, and this invisible wall around her. You didn’t pay any attention to her maybe only once when you were paired for a project that she mostly did.

Huh. When did she get so hot? All of a sudden you could look her up and down all day.

She slid into the booth beside you and gave you a once-over with a furrowed brow. “Hey,” she said, tone smooth, unreadable. “You look… familiar.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. Because she did look familiar. But she also didn’t.

You took a double take then a triple take. You think you’d remember if she had that face back then. Damn. Lauren got hot.

Not loud, showy hot. But undeniable. And it was messing with your ability to form a full sentence.