Mallory went still beside her. Even Gus, who had probably seen every type of reunion imaginable, seemed to lean in, anticipating what came next.
The sounds of the bar faded—the murmur of conversation, the clink of ice against glass, the low hum of music vibrating through the walls—everything dulled beneath the weight of him.
Chase walked straight toward her, glass dangling loosely from his fingers, his boots moving over the worn wooden floor with a confidence that set every nerve in Savannah’s body on high alert.
He wasn’t rushing. No, that wasn’t Chase Montgomery’s style. He took his time, like he knew the moment was his to control, like he knew every step would only tighten the invisible thread that had always pulled them together, no matter how far she had run.
And then—He stopped.
Right in front of her.
Close enough that she could feel the faint warmth of his presence against her skin, close enough that the scent of him—leather, cedar, and something deeper, something infuriatingly familiar—wrapped around her, made her chest ache in ways she wasn’t prepared for. Close enough that she had no choice but to look up at him.
His gaze never wavered. His shoulders relaxed, posture loose, unreadable. The brim of his baseball cap cast the slightest shadow over his face, but it did nothing to dim the sharp, electric blue of his eyes. He tilted his head just slightly, considering her, like he was seeing through every wall she had built, every excuse she had made for herself. Like he had been expecting her all along. Like this was all part of the plan.
His lips curved upward, slow and deliberate, voice low and easy—dangerously soft in a way that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. "You're late, Monroe."
Savannah’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard it was a miracle she stayed upright.
Mallory actually choked on her drink, sputtering. "I—excuse me?!"
Chase didn’t even look at her. His focus was locked entirely on Savannah, as if the rest of the room, the rest of the world, didn’t exist.
And Savannah?
She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or walk right back out the damn door.
Her grip on the bar tightened. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
She had braced for shock. For tension. For an awkward, stilted, how-have-you-been conversation that neither of them would be prepared for. She had not, in any way, prepared for this. For Chase looking like he already knew how this night would go. For him not being thrown at all.
Savannah forced herself to swallow, to breathe, to fight against the pull of him. "I—what are you—"
Mallory suddenly grabbed Savannah’s arm and shook it violently, like a woman on the verge of losing her mind. "No, no, no, you don’t get to just brush past that. What the hell does you’re late mean?"
Chase finally turned to acknowledge her, but his smirk didn’t fade.
If anything, it deepened.
"It means exactly what it sounds like," he said simply.
Mallory narrowed her eyes, suspicion thick in her voice. "So, what—you just assumed she’d show up here eventually?"
Chase didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. "I didn’t assume anything."
Savannah felt it then—the weight of his words settling between them like a storm cloud about to break.
Her stomach twisted. Because he wasn’t just talking about tonight. He was talking about all of it.
Like he had always known, somewhere deep down, that she would come back. Like this moment had always been waiting for them. The tension stretched thick between them, heavy and electric, the kind that sucked all the air from the room.
Savannah curled her fingers into her palm, nails pressing into her skin, grounding herself.
She should say something. She needed to say something.
Tell him he was wrong. Tell him she hadn’t planned on seeing him again. That this wasn’t inevitable. That she hadn’t spent the past year replaying every memory, every late-night conversation, every touch, every damn look like a womantorturing herself with the past. That she hadn’t ached for him in ways she didn’t have words for.
But when she opened her mouth— Nothing came out.
