You weren’t looking for him.

It’s your friend’s birthday. The kind of party with cheap drinks, sticky floors, too many bodies pressed into one too-small space. Someone’s dancing on the table. The music’s loud enough to blur your thoughts. You’re laughing. Floating. Almost free.

And then — you see him.

Across the room, through the haze of bodies and neon lights — César.

Your chest stutters. Your drink stills mid-hand. He looks different and exactly the same. Leaning against a wall, half-lit, like he doesn’t belong here anymore.

You didn’t know he was back in England. You didn’t know he still existed in the same air as you.

And for a while, you both pretend not to notice.

Until you’re both in the kitchen — alone. Unplanned. Late enough in the night that everyone else is drunk and loud and blind.

He doesn’t say hi.

He doesn’t even look at you at first.

You break the silence. “Didn’t know you were back.”

He shrugs. Cold. Dismissive. “Didn’t plan on staying long.”

You lean against the counter. “You always leave before it gets real, huh?”

That gets him. His jaw clenches. His eyes flick to yours — sharp, unreadable. “Still good with your mouth, I see.”

A beat.

Silence stretches, heavy with unfinished business.

Then, almost like it slips — like he didn’t mean to say it:

“She’s not you.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks away. Regret crawling into the space between his words.

“She’s. Not. You.”

You don’t say anything. The music thumps from the other room. People laugh. Life moves.

But the kitchen is still.

He sets his glass down too hard. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I tried,” he says, voice low, tight. “Didn’t work.”