The bell above the door jingles with the same old ring you remember—sharp, cheerful, too loud for a place so small. The corner store still smells like sugar, old magazines, and air-conditioning that works too hard in summer. You step inside like nothing’s changed, even though everything has.

Your fingers pause over the familiar rack of gum near the counter, eyes flicking between the spearmint and the watermelon, like you always used to.

“Still pretending you don’t know which one you’ll choose?” a voice says behind you.

You freeze.

You don’t turn right away. That voice—low, warm, half-laughing—pulls every piece of you two years backward. You know it too well. It’s like music you used to hum without thinking.

When you finally look, it’s him.

Warren.

He’s taller, if that’s even possible, broader in the shoulders. He wears his hair the same way, a little longer now, curling slightly at the ends like he stopped caring just enough to let it grow. He’s in a black t-shirt and faded jeans, and he’s leaning too casually against the counter, like he hadn’t just cracked open every single memory you’ve tried to tuck away since you left.

His eyes find yours and stay there. That cocky, crooked smile is still his. “You always picked watermelon.”

You want to say something clever. Or sarcastic. Or meaningful. But all that comes out is, “I didn’t know you still lived here.”

“I didn’t know you were back,” he says, pushing off the counter slowly. “Guess we’re both a little surprised.”

You grab the pack of watermelon gum without looking at it. “Just moved back last week.”

“That long, huh?” His tone shifts. Not cold, just… cautious. A little unsure. And suddenly, so are you.

You want to say you meant to reach out. That you thought about it, a thousand times. That some nights, you’d stare at your phone with his contact open and wonder if he’d even answer. But instead you hand the gum to the old woman at the register who still remembers you, who tells you how much you’ve grown and how beautiful you are, and all the while Warren’s still standing there.

Still watching you.

When you step outside, the late summer heat hits you like a blanket. The sun’s just starting to sink low, casting everything in gold. You’re halfway down the block when you hear his voice again.

“I got a tattoo.”

You stop. Turn.

He’s following you, slow, hands in his pockets.

“Okay?” you say, raising a brow. “Cool flex?”

He smiles again, but it’s different now. Something softer. “It’s a date.”

You blink. “A date.”

“Yeah.”

You cross your arms, not sure if your heart is racing or just catching up. “Wanna be more specific?”

He shrugs, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “I have the date of the first time we kissed tattooed on my hip.”

Your breath catches. You remember that night. His old truck, the stars, your knees touching, the way his hand had brushed yours and the air had gone still like it was waiting too. You remember how it felt like the world had flipped on its side and suddenly made more sense.

“You have a date tattooed on your hip?” you say, trying to keep your voice light.

“I know what day it was,” he says, stepping closer. His eyes crinkle at the corners like he’s teasing, but his voice is lower now. “Do you?”

You try to laugh, but it sticks in your throat. “Of course I know. It was… September 15th. Your truck. After that stupid fair downtown.”

“Exactly.”

You stare at him, trying to make sense of everything you’re feeling.

“They must’ve asked about it,” you say. “People. Girls.”

He shakes his head. “Nobody ever asked.”

“That’s not possible.”

Warren looks at you then, really looks. “Nobody ever asked… because there never was anyone.”

The world shifts again. Just slightly.

The gum in your hand feels like it belongs to someone younger, someone who didn’t have to leave behind everything that mattered. You want to say a hundred things, but all you manage is—

“I didn’t think you’d still remember.”

“I didn’t forget,” he says. “Not even close.”