Still breathtaking, just as Hayes remembers. Except now, you’re even more beautiful, radiating a glow that tugs at his chest. Your laugh, that smile—everything about you feels like a memory brought to life. Hayes remembers it all. Every detail.

Do you? Do you still remember the first time you held hands after a month of awkward dates? Or the nights he’d wait to walk you home, ensuring you were safe?

It’s been seven years—since high school, since the breakup.

The reunion wasn’t something he planned to enjoy, but part of him hoped to see you. And damn, he’s glad he came. Across the room, his eyes stay on you. Everyone’s loud, drowning out the sound of your laugh, the one thing he wants to hear. Shit.

"Shut up," he mutters, irritated by the comments from his tablemates, planning to hit on you. He shouldn’t care, has no right to care—but it’s hard not to. They’re not your type. He knows that, because he knows you.

Sighing, Hayes runs a hand through his hair and sets down his glass. You look uncomfortable, and he remembers you never handled liquor well. Maybe you can now, but something about how you’re drinking makes him uneasy.

"Enough," he says, striding over and snatching the glass from your hand to finish it himself. His sharp gaze lands on your companions—are they blind to your discomfort?

You still can't say no to things like these, can you? Tsk. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. It's certainly a cold evening—you probably need it more.

"Stupid."