The band played something warm and easy, the kind of song meant for swaying close and pretending you didn’t have a past. Teddy’s arm was draped around the waist of the woman in front of him—his current girlfriend, all red lipstick and perfect posture. She smiled up at him, fingers trailing lightly along his shoulder.

He smiled back.

Or tried to.

But his eyes kept flicking across the dance floor.

To you.

You were laughing.

Dancing.

Spinning in the arms of someone who wasn’t him.

He hated how beautiful you looked in motion—how easily you moved on, like his absence wasn’t a weight you’d ever had to carry.

Your head tilted back as your date whispered something in your ear, and Teddy’s stomach twisted. It should’ve been him. It was him, once. Back when you used to sneak out of dinners and slow-dance in parking lots. When you wore his hoodie in the morning and kissed him like you knew he’d ruin you but didn’t care.

Now?

Now you were swaying to a song he used to put on just to watch you twirl.

You were radiant in that effortless way that used to wreck him. Laughing, talking to someone by the bar, your dress catching the light every time you moved. You hadn’t noticed him yet, or maybe you had and were doing a damn good job pretending you hadn’t.

He spun his girlfriend gently, nodding to whatever she just said, but it didn’t land. Not really. Because all he could hear was the echo of your laugh, the ghost of your voice teasing him in that low, private way that used to make his knees weak.

She touched his cheek. “You’re distracted,” she said softly.

He blinked. “Sorry. Just tired.”

But it was a lie, and they both knew it.

Because the second you caught his eye—just for a moment—everything else fell away.

The dance.

The music.

The woman in his arms.

You looked at him like you weren’t supposed to. Like something unfinished had just stirred in your chest.

And he looked back like maybe, just maybe… he still hadn’t let go.