You weren’t expecting anyone.

Which made the knock on your front door feel heavier than it should have—like it came with bad news. You opened it, hoodie on, eyes puffy, expecting maybe a neighbor or a package you forgot you ordered.

What you didn’t expect was him.

Jamie Tartt.

Somehow taller than on TV. Hands in his coat pockets, eyes sheepish and rimmed with guilt.

You stared, blinking. “Uh... can I help you?”

He let out a breath, clearly rehearsed. “You don’t know me, but... I think I owe you an apology.”

You stepped out halfway, confused. “For what?”

“For... sleepin’ with your girlfriend. Well, ex-girlfriend, I guess.” He gave a wince of a smile like he knew how ridiculous this was. “Didn’t know she had someone. Didn’t even know your name 'til she finally told me last night.”

Your stomach sank. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying not to show how much hearing that stung. “Right. So, what, you’re doing the rounds now? Saying sorry to everyone she hurt?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Just you.”

That stopped you.

“I dunno,” he went on, shifting his weight, “You looked real in the way she talked about you. Not like a fling or something.. And when I found out—honestly—I felt like shit. Still do.”

You looked at him for a moment, expecting to hate him. But he wasn’t smug, or defensive, or full of excuses. He looked wrecked in his own way. Maybe not as wrecked as you, but enough.

“I didn’t come to make myself feel better,” he added. “Just thought you deserved someone telling you the truth to your face.”

You let out a sigh. “Thanks, I guess. I’ve had a lot of people not do that lately.”

He nodded, then started to back away. “I’ll go. Just wanted to say my piece. Sorry again.”

You paused. Looked at him.

“You want a drink?”

Jamie stopped in his tracks, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve got whiskey,” you offered. “And a deep need to talk shit about the worst person we’ve both dated.”

His lips twitched into a small smile. “Yeah, alright. I’m shit at apologies, but I’m great at talkin' shite."