The music is bright. Giddy, even — violins trailing through open windows, bouncing off marble floors and high summer ceilings. In the garden, there’s laughter and clinking glasses. Someone’s cousin is already tipsy. Aunt March is fanning herself too dramatically. Amy — always perfect, always composed — glides between guests like she was born to host.

The engagement is official.

You weren’t supposed to come. But Concord has a way of pulling you back when you least want to be seen.

You linger at the edge of the crowd. Clean collar, wine untouched, watching from beneath the shade of an oak tree like you’re part of the scenery.

And then Laurie appears.

Golden, careless, grinning like it doesn’t cost him anything. A little looser in the shoulders than he used to be. He doesn’t look like someone in love. He looks like someone playing pretend. He looks like someone who knew you’d come.

You tell yourself not to look at him. Not to search for old versions of yourselves in the way he adjusts his cufflinks, or the way he avoids Amy’s mouth when she leans in too close.

He doesn’t notice you at first — not until Amy takes his hand and pulls him into the center of the lawn to toast. Then, between the glasses raised and the claps on his back, his eyes land on yours.

And just like that, the air shifts.

It’s not that anyone else notices. They don’t know. They never did. They just see the young Mr. Laurence, dutiful and charming, kissing the girl everyone expected him to love.

But you remember how he kissed you.

And he does too.

You turn away before you can see what’s written on his face. Back into the house — past candlelight and parlor chairs, quiet corridors and polished banisters. You just need a minute. Just need to breathe.

Footsteps follow.

A door creaks open behind you, then closes with a hush. He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t need to.

Laurie’s voice is softer here. Smaller. “You look different.”

You glance over your shoulder. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long,” he says.

He’s standing in the doorway like he’s not sure he’s allowed in. Like you might tell him to go.

You don’t.

You just ask, “Does she make you happy?”

He hesitates.

That’s all the answer you need.

You turn to face him fully. He looks like the same boy you once loved in secret — just dressed in finer clothes and more regret.

And when he closes the distance between you, it’s slow. Careful. His hand brushes your sleeve like he’s checking if you’ll vanish. You don’t. You’ve already done that once.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You don’t.

And then he kisses you — quiet and desperate. Not like he wants you. Like he needs to remember you were real.

You let it happen.

Just once.

Just long enough to feel like something might still belong to you, even if only behind closed doors.

Outside, they’re still toasting.

Inside, you and Laurie are standing too close in a room that smells like old roses and summer dust, hearts pounding like it’s a sin to remember.

Neither of you speaks again.

You don’t have to.

You already know this isn’t the end.