You spotted him the moment you stepped out of the station. At first, you didn’t believe it was him—couldn’t believe it was him. Coriolanus Snow, your childhood best friend, the boy who used to steal your scarf and tug at your braids, now leaning casually against a sleek black car like he owned the world.

He looked up from his phone, and that sharp, ice-blue gaze locked on you.

“Little one,” he said, voice deeper, richer than you remembered. “Welcome back.”

Little one. He still called you that. Only now, it didn’t feel teasing—it felt dangerous.

You dragged your suitcase toward him, trying not to stare, failing miserably. His coat hung open just enough to reveal a fitted shirt beneath, shoulders broad, chest rising with each slow breath. His hair was a touch longer than before, framing a jawline you definitely would have remembered if it looked like that four years ago.

“Coriolanus?” you asked, like you weren’t already certain.

“Last I checked.” He smiled faintly, stepping forward to take your suitcase. His fingers brushed yours, and you felt it—heat, low and electric, running from your hand up your arm.

“You—uh, you’ve changed,” you managed, cursing yourself for how breathless you sounded.

He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head closer. “Is that your way of saying I got better?”

Your cheeks burned. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The car ride was suffocating—in the worst and best way. His cologne filled the space between you, something darker than you remembered, richer. Every now and then his hand shifted on the wheel, veins taut beneath pale skin, and you found yourself imagining them wrapped around something far less innocent than leather.

“You’ve barely looked at me,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to yours in the rearview mirror.

“I’m looking at the road.”

“Liar.” His voice was low now, a hint of amusement threading through it. “You keep doing that thing with your eyes—quick glances. Like you’re afraid of what might happen if you really look.”

You swallowed. “You’re imagining things.”

“No,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smirk, “I think you’re imagining things. Things you never used to.”

Your thighs pressed together on instinct, and he noticed. Oh, he noticed.

By the time you reached your parents’ estate, your pulse was a steady thrum in your ears. He stepped out first, opened your door, and leaned in—close enough that his breath grazed your ear.

“Four years, and you still bite your lip when you’re nervous,” he murmured. “Careful with that. People might start thinking it means something.”