It was late. The kind of late where the city streets had emptied out, but the neon signs still hummed in pale blue. Tom had just finished a rehearsal and ducked into a gas station — hoodie on, hood up, earbuds in — when he saw her.

{{user}}.

She was in line at the counter, laughing quietly with some guy. Tom didn’t recognize him . Didn’t need to. He was taller than Tom, clean-shaven, probably polite and punctual, and he definitely didn’t sneak into her window at 2 a.m. with a guitar and unfinished lyrics like he used to.

She turned slightly, and Tom’s stomach sank. She was wearing his hoodie. The black one. Frayed cuffs, faint stain from when she spilled iced coffee in the studio once. She kept it. She wore it in front of him. Tom shoved his hands into his pockets, half wanting to walk out, half wanting to pull the hoodie right off her shoulders.

Instead, he passed by her with that sideways glance, cool and sharp. Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he leaned closer just as he brushed past and said, low and dry:

“Cool hoodie. Tell him where you got it?”

He didn’t look back. But he knew she heard. She always did.