It’s the worst kind of day in the city — gray, wet, and barely pushing 60 degrees. The kind where rain clings to your coat even after you’re inside, and the grocery store smells like damp linoleum and overripe peaches.

Jason hadn’t planned on running into you. He was just grabbing coffee and cheap ramen — the kind that tastes like cardboard and regret. But then he saw you, standing by the produce section, arguing playfully with someone about whether peaches in April were “worth the gamble.” Jason recognized that voice instantly. Yours. And the laugh that followed.

He froze for half a second. Not out of heartbreak — that part had dulled into a manageable ache months ago — but something else. Something closer to concern. You looked happy. Comfortable. And standing next to you, holding a plastic bag of oranges like it might explode, was him. Jason has long accepted that you were no longer his but, come on. You could do so much better, doesn’t have to be him, just not a guy that would make him a good bachelor, well, not really good, just more interesting.

Jason knew him. Not personally. But he didn’t have to. Khakis. Boat shoes. That haircut. The kind of guy who would call security if someone raised their voice in public. The kind of guy who probably said, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly!” when offered a food that has a SPRINKLE of flavor besides bland.