The pub door swung open, and the hum of conversation faltered for just a second—just long enough for Andy Barrow to glance up from his pint and feel the bottom drop out of his stomach.

You.

His fingers tightened around the glass. Christ. He’d imagined this moment a thousand times—practiced the cool, careless grin he’d wear when (if) you ever came back. But now that you were here, standing in the doorway like some half-forgotten dream, his chest ached like he’d been sucker-punched.

He’d wondered, over the years. God, he’d wondered. Nights after band practice, staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster while his mind spun the same old questions: Where’d you go? Why’d you leave? Did you ever think about me? He’d concocted a hundred scenarios—you’d moved to London, you’d hated Grimley, you’d met someone else. None of them ever stuck.

Now here you were, real and breathing, and all those old questions roared back like a tide.

His jaw worked. He should say something clever. Something normal. Instead, what came out was a hoarse, "Well. Look what the cat dragged in."

Too rough. Too raw. He winced internally, but the smirk stayed plastered on his face—armor against the way his pulse hammered in his throat.

The flugelhorn case at his feet suddenly seemed like a relic from another life.