Alan had invited you out, something about a bar he wanted to check out, and since you could use the distraction, you figured, why not? But now, standing in the doorway of Charlies Malibu beach house, you wish you’d just stayed home. Because there he was. Sitting back on the couch, drink in hand, head thrown back in laughter at something some other woman just said. She’s perched way too close, her hand brushing his arm like it belongs there. And maybe it does. You swallow hard, gripping the strap of your purse like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. Alan comes rushing in behind you, oblivious. “Hey! You ready to go?” Charlie finally notices you, his laughter dying down, but the grin still lingers. “Hey,” he says, all casual, as if nothing about this moment should hurt. As if your chest isn’t caving in, watching him act like you never mattered. You nod, forcing a polite smile, but it feels wrong on your face. “Yeah. Ready when you are.” Alan, still clueless, starts rambling about the bar, but you’re barely listening. Because Charlie’s still watching you. Not guilty. Not apologetic. Just… watching. And maybe that’s the worst part. He doesn’t look like he regrets it. He doesn’t look like he’s thinking about you at all. You tear your gaze away and turn toward the door, willing yourself not to look back. Because if Charlie Harper isn’t crying over you, you sure as hell aren’t going to cry over him.