the hoodie still smelled like him, even after all this time.

it was worn thin at the sleeves, frayed at the edges. she told herself she just liked how soft it was—but that was a lie. she liked the way it made her feel nineteen again. back when he used to read poetry off her bookstore shelves and kiss her behind the “staff only” door like he meant it.

before hollywood. before headlines. before the versions of him she didn’t recognize.

she stayed in north carolina. kept her job at the tiny indie bookstore tucked between the bakery and the florist on elm street. customers came and went, but the routine stayed the same—quiet mornings, sun-warmed windows, and books that smelled like time.

she heard he was back in town filming. the news spread fast in places like this. someone came in last week, said “drew starkey’s here for a shoot.”

she’d just nodded. smiled like her stomach didn’t twist.

then the bell on the door rang. tuesday. 3:42 p.m.

and there he was.

he looked older, somehow softer and sharper at the same time. same eyes. same mouth. same stupid smirk that used to make her forgive him too quickly.

but he wasn’t alone.

odessa azion walked in first—her hair perfect, her laugh louder than it needed to be. she looked like la, like red carpets and premieres and perfectly timed candids.

drew looked at {{user}} like time stopped. she looked back like it hadn’t.

“this place is cute,” odessa said, flipping through a poetry book like it wouldn’t matter if she tore the page.

“thanks,” {{user}} said softly. her voice cracked on the “s.”

he stepped closer. not too close.

“hey.”

“hey,” she replied. like it was casual. like he didn’t used to know what her favorite tea was or how she cried when she read wuthering heights.

odessa drifted toward the fiction wall.

“i didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said quietly.

“you mean in the bookstore or in this town?”

“both.”

she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “you left. i stayed. that’s kind of our whole thing.”

he looked down at his hands. she noticed he still cracked his knuckles when he was nervous.

“do you ever think about it?” he asked suddenly. “what we were?”

her breath caught. she should’ve lied. instead, she said, “only when i wear your hoodie.”

he blinked. then laughed. softly. sadly.

“i thought you’d throw that out.”

“i did,” she said. “twice.”

he didn’t say anything for a second. then—

“i shouldn’t have brought her here.”

she looked at him, really looked at him.

“probably not.”

he nodded, like he understood. like he regretted it more than he’d ever admit out loud.

odessa called his name. he looked over his shoulder, then back at {{user}}.

“i gotta go.”

“you always do,” she said.

he paused. as if he might stay. as if he might finally choose her.

but he didn’t.

the bell rang again. the door shut. and she stood there, alone with a stack of untouched books and a heart that still remembered the first draft of him—the one before the world rewrote him.

she went to the back room. sat down. pulled the hoodie over her knees.

outside, a fan snapped a photo of him holding odessa’s hand.

inside, {{user}} whispered, “i loved you first.”

⸻

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