Two years—that’s how long it’d been since I last saw her.

Two years since slammed doors and words we didn’t mean but couldn’t take back. Since pride swallowed apologies and neither of us chased the other down the driveway. I never got to know if she still loved me after all that.

I knew that I did, though.

Probably still do.

I saw her again by accident—at least that’s what I told myself. A mutual friend’s birthday, too much noise, too many people pretending we hadn’t once been each other’s entire world. And then there she was across the room, laughing at something someone said, head tipped back the way it always had been when she forgot to guard herself.

She looked the same.

No—better. Sharper somehow. Stronger.

Her eyes found mine like they’d been searching without meaning to. The smile slipped first. Then the air between us changed.

“Hey,” she said when I finally got close enough. Just that. Soft. Careful.

“Hey.”

Two years collapsed into two syllables.

We tried small talk. It lasted maybe three minutes before the weight of everything unsaid pressed in. We stepped outside, needing space from the crowd, from the music, from the eyes that remembered.

“You look good,” I said, because it was true and because I didn’t trust myself to say more.

“You disappeared,” she replied, and there wasn’t anger in it anymore. Just history.

“You pushed me away.”

Her jaw tightened. “You left.”

Silence. The kind that used to scare us. The kind that used to turn into shouting. This time it just… lingered.

“I never stopped loving you,” I said before I could lose my nerve.

She inhaled sharply, like the truth hit somewhere unprotected. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s honest.”

Her eyes searched my face, probably looking for the old temper, the defensiveness. I’d grown since then. Or at least I’d tried to.

“I hated you for a while,” she admitted.

That did something to my chest.

“Do you still?” I asked.

She stepped closer instead of answering.

I don’t know who closed the distance first. Maybe we both did. It wasn’t desperate at first—just familiar. Careful hands at her waist. Her fingers gripping my jacket like she needed proof I was real. The kiss started soft, testing, careful.

And then it wasn’t careful anymore.

Two years of distance poured into it. Regret. Long nights. Almost-texts that were never sent. Her mouth was warm and insistent, and when she made that quiet sound against my lips—the same one she used to make when she’d finally given in—I felt undone.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

I would’ve followed her anywhere.

Her place wasn’t far. Different apartment, different neighborhood, but the way she kicked off her shoes by the door hadn’t changed. The way she looked at me—half challenge, half vulnerability—hadn’t either.

We didn’t talk much after that.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t slow either. It was two people who knew exactly how the other fit. Hands rediscovering skin. Breaths tangling. The kind of closeness that wasn’t just physical—it was history and memory and everything we’d buried coming back to the surface.

When I finally fell asleep, it was with her curled against my chest like no time had passed at all.

Morning came in soft light through unfamiliar curtains.

For a second, I didn’t know where I was. The ceiling wasn’t mine. The sheets smelled like her—clean and warm and something that had always been uniquely her.

Then I felt her.

She was tucked against my side, one leg thrown over mine, hair a mess across the pillow. Peaceful. No walls up. No sharp edges.

I swallowed.

Two years ago, she woke up alone and angry.

Now I was in her bed.

She stirred slightly, eyes blinking open slow and heavy with sleep. When she realized it was me, there was a flicker of uncertainty—like she expected me to be gone.