The London night was heavy with autumn fog, the kind that clung to the skin and made the air taste like ash and memory. Julian moved through it like a shadow, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of his leather jacket, the scent of smoke trailing behind him like a ghost. But it was different now. Everything was.

He hadn’t expected to see you again, not here, not tonight. Not after the last time, the fight that burned everything to ash, the words neither of you could take back. But Daisy had called, said it was urgent. Said she needed you. And Julian never ignored Daisy, not since he swore to protect her, not after everything they’d been through. You were already there when he arrived at the flat. Familiar posture, hair tucked behind your ears the way it always was when you were trying to stay calm, to seem composed.

You didn’t even flinch when the door opened and he stepped inside. You didn’t need to. You were used to chaos—hell, you were raised in it, same as the rest of them. Julian stood there for a second too long, caught between a memory and a grudge. You were older now, more careful with your expressions, no longer soft the way you’d once been with him. He didn’t blame you. You shouldn’t have been.

The flat was too quiet, and the tension between you hummed louder than any silence ever could. Daisy had stepped out for a moment, left you two in the same room on purpose, probably. She was always doing things like that. Trying to fix things no one asked her to fix.

Julian moved around the room like it might bite him, every piece of furniture a reminder. Of late nights. Of your laughter echoing off the walls. Of love that tasted too much like survival and ended in ruin. The ashtray by the window still sat in the same place where you used to flick your cigarettes, legs crossed and mouth smiling at him like you hadn’t already stolen everything he had left to give.

But it wasn’t bitterness in his throat anymore. It was something softer. Sadder. Regret, maybe. The kind that sat in his chest and never quite left, even as he built empires and burned bridges.

You glanced at him only once before turning your attention back to the stack of records on the coffee table. It was an old copy of The Clash—his favorite. Still. Your thumb ran over the sleeve gently, as if remembering hurt.

Daisy’s bedroom door creaked from the hallway, the quiet hum of her voice returning from the stairwell. Julian’s eyes lingered on you for one second longer, the same way they always did. Like he wanted to say something. Like he never stopped.

But just like before, he didn’t. He simply walked past, brushing your shoulder lightly as he moved. Just enough to feel real.

And in that quiet space between heartbeats, everything you’d buried surfaced—briefly, painfully—before sinking again into the silence.