It had been two years since the night you told Rafe the truth. You weren’t even sure if you regretted it anymore, but back then, the weight of your words had sent him storming off, disappearing behind the wheel of his Benz while you stood frozen by the gate, watching his taillights fade.

You and Rafe were never simple. He was chaos wrapped in charm, a storm that never seemed to settle. You were the only one who saw through it, past the bravado and sharp edges. But when you finally said what you had been holding back—when you told him you couldn’t keep chasing after a love that always left you feeling second place—he hadn’t taken it well. He left.

Now, two summers later, you weren’t the same people anymore. You had moved forward, but never really moved on. Your lives had shifted—he had his own world, the people he surrounded himself with, the expectations he lived under. And you? You had learned to exist without him. Or at least, you told yourself you had.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor. A party. A chance encounter. A glance across the room.

Rafe was there, leaning against the bar, his signature smirk still as infuriating as ever. But when he saw you, it faltered, just for a second. It was enough to make your heart clench.

Neither of you spoke at first. There was nothing to say—except for everything. Then, over the sound of the music, he murmured, “You look different.”

“So do you.”

A pause.

“Did you miss me?”

You swallowed, gripping your drink a little tighter. “I don’t know.”

And maybe that was the truth. Because love and sorrow had never been separate with him. And maybe they never would be.