Patrick hasn’t changed.

That’s the lie you tell yourself when you sit across from him at the table, knees almost brushing, the space between you crowded with unfinished things. He looks older, sure; sharper at the edges. Lines at the corners of his mouth. And the beard, too. Hot. But the way he watches you? That’s identical. Predatory. Curious. Like he’s already halfway inside your head.

You hadn’t planned this.

You ran into him by accident, if accidents can look this deliberate. A bar first. A glance held too long. A drink that turned into two. A laugh you shouldn’t have let slip. Then suddenly it was just… obvious. The way gravity works. You’d always fallen into each other like that. No warning. No balance.

Now you’re here.

Alone. Wine untouched. The table small enough that his foot could find yours if he wanted it to.

Patrick’s gaze drops to your hands.

Bare fingers. No ring.

He stares like he’s discovered proof of something he’s been arguing in court for years.

“So,” he says, leaning back, spreading his legs just a little wider. “It’s real.”

You arch a brow. “What is?”

“You and Art.” His mouth quirks. Not kind. “Done.”

There’s something ugly and proud in his tone, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. He never did. Patrick has always worn his worst thoughts like a tailored suit.

You don’t answer right away. You lift your glass instead, take a slow sip, eyes never leaving his.

He watches your throat as you swallow.

Fuck.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “It’s real.”

He nods, lips pressing together, like he’s savoring it. Like this is a win he doesn’t have to apologize for anymore. His fingers drum against the table, restless, betraying him.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I always wondered how long it’d take before you got bored.”

You laugh softly.

“I wasn’t bored.”

“No,” he agrees, eyes flicking back to your hands. “You were… patient. Big difference.”

There it is - that undercurrent. Nostalgia mixed with accusation. Heat tangled up with old bruises. You remember how it used to be between you: stolen hours, arguments that ended breathless, his mouth always saying the wrong thing while his body did everything right.

Patrick leans forward now, forearms on the table. Close enough that you can smell him, cleaner than he used to be, but still unmistakably him. There’s something a little desperate under the confidence, something frayed. Like he’s been rehearsing this moment and still doesn’t know how it’ll end.

“I thought about you,” he says, quieter. Then, because he can’t help himself: “More than I should’ve.”

You meet his eyes.

“So did I.”

That does something to him. You see it. The flicker of relief. Of triumph. Of want.

His gaze drops again - to your fingers, your wrist, the soft skin he used to kiss when he was trying not to beg. His jaw tightens. His thoughts are not subtle. They never were.

Silence stretches. Heavy. Electric. Two people in their thirties who know exactly what they’re capable of - and exactly how bad it could get.

Patrick’s foot nudges yours under the table.

Not accidental.

“Tell me to stop following you around,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “And I will.”

You don’t move your foot.

You don’t tell him anything.

And Patrick smiles - slow, knowing, a little wrecked - like a man who’s just realized the past isn’t done with him yet.