Two months ago, you ended it.

Not in a dramatic, screaming-match way. Worse. Calm. Thought-out. Honest.

You told him you needed space. That being in a relationship felt like breathing through a straw. That you were losing yourself a bit. That it wasn’t him—which somehow hurt him more than if it had been.

Ash didn’t argue. Didn’t beg. Didn’t raise his voice.

He just went quiet. That dangerous, heavy quiet. The kind where you feel the disappointment settle in the room like dust.

“Okay,” was all he said.

And that was it.

Tonight is the first time since.

Same bar. Same sticky tables. Same low lights that make bad decisions feel romantic.

You’re there with Amy, Kelly, Kate, and Georgia. The usual girl cluster—coats piled on one chair, drinks half-finished because everyone keeps talking over each other.

You knew this could happen. You just didn’t think it actually would.

The door opens.

And there they are.

Connor first—loud, already laughing. Mike right behind him, scanning the room. Oscar and Harry trailing in, mid-argument about something dumb.

And then Ash.

He doesn’t look for you.

That’s the first punch.

He’s broader somehow. Like he’s been living at the gym. His jaw is tighter. His expression neutral in that unreadable, locked-down way he gets when he’s holding too much in.

He spots your table anyway.

Of course he does.

For half a second—just half—his eyes flicker. Not shock. Not anger.

Recognition.

Then he looks away.

“Shit,” Kelly mutters under her breath.

Amy freezes mid-sip. “Do we… leave?”

You shake your head too fast. “No. It’s fine.”

It’s not fine. But you sit there anyway, spine straight, fingers wrapped around your glass like it’s anchoring you to the chair.

The guys take the table across the room. Close enough to feel. Far enough to pretend it’s coincidence.

Everyone’s pretending.

The noise of the bar fills the gaps where conversation should be. Laughter. Glass clinking. Music thumping too loud.

You catch flashes of him without meaning to.

Ash leaning back, forearms on the table. Ash listening more than talking. Ash smirking once at something Mike says—but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

He hasn’t looked at you again.

That hurts more than if he had.

At one point, Georgia leans in. “He looks… different.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

Another drink later—maybe two—Harry stands up. Wanders over like he’s just remembered you exist.

“Well,” he says, awkward grin in place. “This is… weird, huh?”

“Hey,” you reply. Neutral. Polite. Like he’s not attached to memories you’re trying not to replay.

Small talk. Safe stuff. Who’s doing what.

Ash doesn’t come over.

He watches Harry talk to you though. You feel it without looking. That heavy gaze, controlled but sharp. Not jealous—he doesn’t do messy jealousy.

It’s worse.

It’s restraint.

Eventually, you need air. Or silence. Or anything that isn’t this.

You stand.

And the second you do, Ash does too.

Not dramatic. Just instinct. Like his body reacts before his head can stop it.

You meet outside, where the lights dim and the music fades into a low hum.

Up close, it’s different. He smells the same. Clean. Familiar. Dangerous.

He looks at you now. Really looks.

“Hey,” he says.

One word. Steady voice. Like it didn’t take everything in him to keep it that calm.

“Hey.”

Silence stretches. Thick. Loaded.

“You okay?” he asks finally.

You swallow. “Yeah. I am.”

He studies your face like he’s checking for cracks you used to hide from him.

“Good,” he says. A beat. “That’s what you wanted.”

It’s not accusation. That’s the problem.