I see her before she sees me.

Red dress - deep, like blood. Gold hoop earrings. That same fucking confident posture, like the whole rooftop bends around her and she’s too untouchable to notice.

I grip my glass a little harder. My jaw clenches.

She’s laughing - of course she is. Head tilted back, hand brushing her hair over one shoulder like she hasn’t spent months pretending I don’t exist. Like she didn’t once beg me not to leave her bed in the middle of the night. Like we didn’t fuck our way through half the race calendar last year, always pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Now she pretends I’m air.

God, I hate her.

She ruined me and made it look like I did it to myself.

I shouldn’t go over there. I know what happens when we’re in the same room. Same city. Same breath. We burn it all down just to feel something.

But I’m already walking.

She spots me halfway across the rooftop. Her smile dies. For a second there’s something in her eyes. Recognition. Memory. Hunger.

Then ice.

She turns her body away from me, like she’s dismissing a waiter.

“Didn’t know they let snakes in.” She says, without looking.

“Didn’t know they let heartbreaks in red dresses walk free.” I fire back, smiling coldly.

She finally turns her head, slow and deliberate. Her eyes lock on mine and I swear the temperature drops.

“You still think you’re clever.” She says, voice sweet like poison.

“You still think you didn’t love it.”

She exhales sharply, like she’s about to laugh but it curdles in her throat. “I loved the sex. The silence after? Not so much.”

I laugh once, bitter and low. “You were never silent, {{user}}. Not when I had you pinned against hotel windows. Not when you were pulling my shirt off in the back of that rental car in Austin.”

Her nostrils flare.

Bullseye.

“Fuck you.” She hisses.

“Already did.” I say, stepping closer. “For months, remember? You couldn’t get enough.”

She shoves her drink onto a nearby table and whirls to face me fully. We’re too close now and she knows it. Her perfume hits me first - same scent, goddamn it - and then her heat, her eyes, the fury barely hiding the fact that she’s remembering it all too.

“You were a habit.” She spits. “A mistake I kept making because I didn’t want to feel alone.”

That one cuts deeper than I want it to.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard.

“You begged me to stay.” I murmur. “The night after Monaco. You were shaking. You said you didn’t want it to end.”

“You said we didn’t need labels.” She snaps. “You said we were fine. That’s what you do, right? You drive fast, live faster, and when something actually matters -”

“I destroy it.” I finish for her. “Yeah. You made that clear when you left.”

“I had to leave. You never chose me. Not once.”

The rooftop is too loud and somehow too quiet at the same time. People swirl around us, laughing, drinking, kissing. And we’re frozen in place, locked in a war we never really stopped fighting.

“I hate you.” She says and it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than me.

I reach out before I can stop myself, tilt her chin up with two fingers until she’s forced to look at me.

“Say it again.” I whisper.

She doesn’t. She just blinks - slow, sharp and venomous - her eyes burning into mine like a threat.

I hate her too. Hate how she makes me feel like nothing else matters. Like every other girl is a pale version of the one person who knew exactly how to set me on fire - and then walked away, just to watch me burn.

“I could fuck you right here.” I whisper darkly. “And we’d still lie to ourselves tomorrow.”

She doesn’t move.

Her breath is shallow. Her pupils wide. And I know - know - she’s thinking about it.

But she steps back. Slowly. Deliberately.

“No. You don’t get to touch me again.” She says. “You already left enough scars.”

She turns on her heel and walks away without looking back.