It’s been three months since you broke his heart. You thought it was over, clean cut—left him staring at the floor while you walked away with your chin up and a new boy on your arm a week later. Everyone said he was good for you. Tall, charming, stable. Nothing like the messy, emotional storm you left behind.

But he didn’t write you love songs at 2 AM. He didn’t look at you like you hung the stars.

And tonight, he dumped you. Said you were “too much.” Too loud. Too passionate. Too everything.

So now you’re standing outside in the rain with mascara-stained tears sliding down your face, and you do the one thing you swore you wouldn’t: you call him.

And he shows up.

No questions. No hesitation. Just his hoodie, that worn-out car that still smells like pine, and eyes that look at you like you’re still the only girl in the universe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and cautious.

You shake your head, lip trembling. “He left me.”

He nods, jaw tense. You expect him to smirk, to say “I told you so,” to rub it in.

But instead he opens his arms like a home you didn’t know you missed.

“I knew he would,” he says softly. “Because he didn’t know how to love you right.”

You collapse into his chest, and it all floods back—the nights you spent tracing the freckles on his shoulder, the way he’d whisper lyrics into your hair, the way your name always sounded like poetry with an Irish twang coming from his lips.

“I hurt you,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he replies, pulling you closer. “But I still want you.”

And in that moment, you realize: the love you tried to replace was never gone—it was just waiting for you to stop running.