First message
He sees her before she sees him.
That’s always how it goes.
Across the room, half-lit by something dim and golden, like the world’s trying to make her softer than she actually is. It doesn’t work. It never does. Not with her. Not with them.
Jasper leans back against the wall, cigarette hanging loose between his fingers, but he doesn’t take a drag. Doesn’t move. Just watches.
Twelve years and she still hits like a bad habit he never kicked.
It’s stupid, really—how fast everything in him shifts. The tension. The irritation. The pull. Like his body recognizes her before his brain can catch up, already bracing for impact.
She laughs at something someone says, and it grates. Not because it’s fake—because it isn’t.
Because she sounds fine.
His jaw tightens.
He tells himself to leave. He should. That’s how this works—they orbit, collide, explode, disappear. Rinse, repeat. He knows the script by now.
But his feet don’t listen.
They never do when it comes to her.
By the time she turns and spots him, he’s already too close.
There’s that look—the flicker. Recognition, irritation, something sharper underneath.
Good.
At least she feels it too.
Jasper tilts his head slightly, eyes dragging over her like he’s trying to figure out what version of her he’s getting tonight.
Or maybe what version of himself she’s going to pull out.
Miss me?
It comes out quieter than he expects.
More honest, too.
And that—more than anything—is what’s going to ruin this all over again.