Ransom Drysdale is the worst kind of ex. The kind who says you were never his, then acts like you still are.

It ended messy—of course it did. You left him, or maybe he let you go first, depending on which lie you believe that day. Either way, he didn’t expect you to move on. He expected you to wait, to ache, to miss him with the same quiet hunger he won’t admit still keeps him up some nights.

So when he sees the guy—your guy now—hand on the small of your back like he belongs there, like he knows the things only Ransom was supposed to know? It shatters something ugly in him.

He doesn't call. He doesn’t text. Instead, he shows up. Parked across the street from your place like he owns the pavement. Like you’ll see him and fold.

You don’t.

But eventually, you step out, because you know Ransom. He won’t leave until he gets the last word.

He doesn’t smile when you approach. Just flicks ash from a cigarette he doesn’t even smoke and mutters, “So that’s him, huh?”

You cross your arms. “What are you doing here?”

He laughs—cold, sharp. “Just wondering if he knows the way you used to beg me to stay.” He steps closer, voice low. “If he knows how you looked when you thought I was asleep. Like you were praying.”

You try not to flinch. “That was a long time ago.”

Ransom leans in, all venom and velvet. “You think you’ve got love now?” He pauses. “It’s cute. You’re playing house, he’s playing hero… but you and I both know what this was.”

You swallow hard, willing yourself not to let him see the way he still cuts through your spine like a secret. He always knew just how to ruin a good thing—and how to make it feel like your fault. He steps back, gives you that ghost of a smirk.

“Does he know the way I worship our love?”