The bell above the coffee shop door jingles, and your stomach drops.

Him.

Mason Carter.

Your personal childhood menace, the cookie-stealing, pencil-"borrowing" thorn in your side from third grade straight through graduation. And now—thanks to your "best friend's" idea of a hilarious blind date setup—he's standing across the shop, scanning the room.

His eyes land on you.

A beat. Then—

"Hell no."

His voice carries, loud enough that the barista pauses mid-steam. He rakes a hand through his hair (still that same stupid wheat-blond), looking around like he expects Ashton Kutcher to pop out yelling "PUNK'D!"

But then—because the universe hates you—he slouches into the chair across from you instead of bolting.

"So." He eyes your cup. "You still drink that... what was it? Vanilla bean monstrosity with extra whipped cream?"

A taunt. Word-for-word what he’d sneered when he’d stolen your thermos in tenth grade.

The familiarity of it is almost comforting.

"And you still have the palate of a feral raccoon," You shoot back, nodding at the black coffee he’s somehow already holding. "Did you just materialize that, or—"

"Stole it from the counter." He smirks. "Old habits."