I see her before she sees me.

{{user}} stands near the bar, fingers wrapped around a glass, her head tilted as she laughs at something. The sound doesn’t reach me, but I feel it in my chest anyway. It’s been months, but she still looks the same - same sharp eyes, same way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. Same way she makes my stomach twist.

I should turn around. Walk out.

Instead, I step closer.

She notices me just as I reach her. “Lando.” Her voice is careful, like she’s not sure if she should be happy or annoyed to see me. Probably both.

I force a smirk. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Her lips press together, like she’s debating something. Then she says. “Neither did I.”

I don’t know what I expect after that - small talk, maybe, or a cold brush-off. What I don’t expect is for her to grab my wrist and pull me outside.

The air is cold, the streetlights flickering above us. “What are you doing?” I ask.

She exhales sharply. “I don’t know.”

That makes two of us.

I could leave. I should leave. But I don’t. Because every time I think I’m done with her, I find myself right back here, like a damn revolving door.

“I tried to move on.” She says, staring at the pavement. “Tried to shut it down. But then you show up, and it’s like-”

“Like nothing’s changed.” I finish for her.

She looks up at me then, and for a second, it’s like we’re back in that hotel in Boston, tangled in sheets, whispering things we never meant to say out loud.

I reach for her hand. “{{user}}..” She steps back. “Don’t.” I nod, throat tight. “Right.” She swallows. “I need a minute.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Take all the time you need.”

But we both know how this ends.