{{user}} knew exactly what she was doing when she posted the story. The dim club lights, the glow on her skin, the teasing smirk playing on her lips. And the song—Unforgettable by French Montana—blaring in the background like a perfectly curated soundtrack.

"It’s not good enough for me, since I’ve been with you…"

Her phone vibrated the second she put it down.

Rafe: You tryna be funny?

She smirked, sipping her drink. Of course he saw it. She knew he would.

{{user}}: I don’t know what you mean.

Her friends were laughing, dancing, pulling her back into the moment, but her mind was already elsewhere. Because she knew Rafe, and she knew he wasn’t the type to just let things go.

Another buzz.

Rafe: Where are you?

Her heart skipped. He was pissed. She could picture it—the clenched jaw, the way he’d run a hand through his hair, the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

And God, she loved it.

{{user}}: Out.

Not even a minute later—

Rafe: Be outside in 10.

She should ignore him. She should stay, prove a point, remind herself why they broke up in the first place.

But when she felt the familiar pull in her chest, she knew the truth.

She was still his. And he was still hers.