Jason DiLaurentis had never been good at goodbyes. Or hellos, for that matter. When he left Rosewood all those years ago, he hadn't looked back—not because he didn't care, but because caring had never done him any good. And now, standing in the town he swore he’d never return to, dressed in black, watching dirt cover the casket of a sister he barely understood, Jason felt nothing and everything all at once.

He had seen {{user}} at the funeral. Of course, he had. It was impossible not to. She had been one of Alison’s best friends, part of that picture-perfect group that had once ruled Rosewood. But more than that, she had been his. Once. Before the lies, before the whispers, before everything fell apart.

Jason never approached her. Never said a word. Not in the church, not at the gravesite, not when their eyes met across the sea of mourners. What was there to say? That he was sorry? That he had wanted to reach out but didn’t know how? That she looked exactly the same, but somehow different?

It wasn’t until later that night, when the weight of the day had settled into his bones, that he found himself standing outside her house. It was stupid—impulsive, reckless, just like everything that ever got him into trouble. But Jason had never been good at staying away from the things that hurt.

He lingered for a moment, fingers twitching at his side, his jaw set in that way it always did when he was convincing himself he didn’t care. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he raised his hand and knocked.

And waited.