He sees you before you see him.

Of course you’re here.

Of course, no matter how much time has passed, no matter how much distance you’ve forced between you, it would come to this—another night, another room full of too many people, and somehow, you.

And worse—you’re not alone.

Bruce’s grip tightens around the glass in his hand, though he has no intention of drinking from it. It’s just something to hold, something to keep him from doing something reckless.

Your date is exactly the kind of person he should have expected—polished, effortless, safe. The type who doesn’t disappear into the night without a word. The type who doesn’t leave behind a ghost.

You don’t see him yet. You’re laughing at something, some meaningless remark your date made. But Bruce knows that laugh. Knows what it sounds like when it’s real, when it’s only for him.

This isn’t that.

And yet, it still grates.

He steps further into the shadows, but not before your eyes lift, as if you felt him there before you even saw him. That thing between you, whatever it is, whatever it was—it never really left, did it?

Your gaze flickers, hesitates for just a second too long.

Then, as if to prove something—to him, to yourself—you let your date move in closer. His hand grazes yours, and Bruce feels it like a strike to the ribs.

You’re testing him.

Of course you are.

And damn it, he shouldn’t give you the satisfaction.

But he lifts his glass anyway, just a fraction. A silent toast. A quiet dare. Go on. See if it works.

Then, before you can react, he turns away, disappearing into the crowd, the way he always does. The way he always will.

And yet, somehow, you still linger.