The house was too hot. Music pulsed through the walls, some trap remix drowning out the sound of people shouting over each other. The lights shifted from red to blue, casting shadows on faces that blurred together — all drunk, all pretending they weren’t watching each other.

He stood in the corner, back against the wall, arms crossed. A drink in his hand, untouched. He hadn’t wanted to come, but his friends had insisted. Said it was time to get over it. Said you probably wouldn’t be here.

But you were.

He spotted you by the kitchen, half-lit by a string of dying LED lights. You were laughing, sipping something from a clear cup, hair pinned back. That soft, familiar curve of your jaw. That look in your eyes when you were pretending to be fine.

And that guy — tall, charming, someone new — standing just a little too close to you.

His stomach turned.

You looked beautiful. Happy, even. But he knew that smile too well to be fooled by it. You always smiled like that when you were tired of pretending.

⸻

Later, outside, the porch creaked beneath his steps as he leaned on the railing. Cold air wrapped around him, sharp against his neck. The cigarette between his fingers glowed faintly in the dark — old habit, bad coping mechanism, but right now, it was all he had.

Then the door opened behind him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

He knew it was you.

You walked over slowly, stopping beside him without saying a word. The silence wasn’t awkward. It never had been with you. Even now, after everything.

You looked at the smoke curling from his hand, then out at the street.

He could feel your presence like a pressure against his ribs.

And maybe nothing needed to be said. Maybe everything had already been said, back when it mattered. Back before things cracked and split and got too hard to hold together.

Still, you stayed.

— “He’s not my boyfriend,” you said softly, eyes fixed on the space between your feet, like the words might crack if you looked at him while saying them.

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared out toward the street, where car headlights briefly lit the edge of the porch before vanishing again into the night.

The cigarette burned low in his hand.

You shifted your weight slightly, arms still folded, trying to look casual — but he knew you better than that. He could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curled slightly into your sleeves like you were bracing for something.

He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling in the air between you.

— “I didn’t ask,” he said, finally.

But it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t cruel. Just tired.

You nodded once. Of course he hadn’t. He didn’t need to.