Dare.
He wore black jeans and a slate-gray shirt I’d never seen before, hands tucked into his pockets as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch anything, or anyone. His hair was a little longer, brushed back and wind-tousled. He hadn’t shaved, but the scruff suited him. He looked older, more confident. That black-leather-jacket-bad-boy thing was still very much alive, and unfortunately for my heart, it was still working. Dare looked like the version of himself I’d always hoped would exist—less armor, more soul.
Our eyes met, and the world stopped.
Music faded to a dull throb. Laughter dissolved. The lights blurred into soft smudges behind him. I wasn’t on a rooftop anymore—I was eleven, breathless on a trampoline in his backyard. Thirteen, locked in a closet during a game of truth or dare, knees bumping. Seventeen, and shattered because he looked right at me like he hated me, and worse, like he didn’t.
I was every version of myself I swore I’d left behind.
I couldn’t breathe. My stomach twisted. My grip tightened on the untouched drink, frozen between fury and longing.
He came.
He came here. For me.
And all I could think was—Don’t run, Tru. Don’t fall. Don’t hope.
Because I’d done all three before, and he’d still left me bleeding.
But his eyes were soft tonight. Steady. No mask. No swagger. Just Dare, standing there as if he’d finally figured out what he wanted. And he’d finally come to claim it.
Me.
His gaze never wavered. He moved toward me slowly, like I might bolt. I thought about it—my legs twitching, my body unsure how to exist—but my heart refused to move. It pounded as Dare walked back into my life like he’d never left.
I just stared because I didn’t know what else to do. He stopped close enough for me to smell his soap and cologne. Dare looked at me like I was the only person on that rooftop.
“What are you doing here?” My voice cracked mid-sentence.
He smiled. Just barely. Tight at the corners. “I came to celebrate you.” My name was a breath on his tongue. “Tru?—”
“Dare–” I said it like a warning, or a prayer. Maybe both.
He didn’t let me finish. He stepped into my space and cupped my jaw—gentle, reverent. The noise around us disappeared. His thumb brushed just below my lip, like he was trying to memorize the shape of me—or remember it.
“I didn’t know how to love you then,” he said, voice low and wrecked but even all at once. “But I do now. If you still want me, I’m here.”
The rooftop spun, but he was the only thing in focus. My pulse thundered.
I glanced around without meaning to, saw people watching, phones lifted, mouths open. For a second, panic flared. But then I looked back at him.
Dare wasn’t looking at them. He wasn’t flinching. He wasn’t hiding. He was only looking at me. I was it. Just like I always had been.
And it hit me. This was the first time he wasn’t afraid to be seen.
“You were my best friend,” he said, thumb tracing the corner of my mouth. “You were the boy I dared to kiss and then spent six years trying to forget. I failed. I still love you. I’ll say it a thousand times until you believe me.”
My throat tightened. I could barely breathe past the flood of feelings.
“Back then, I was scared of how bright you were,” he went on, eyes shining. “But now I just want to stand next to you and burn.”
My heart somersaulted. My body refused to move. I didn’t know how to process the look in his eyes, or the way he kept talking like we were the only two people in the world.
I grabbed his shirt, fists bunching at the collar, and pulled him down to me. The kiss hit like wildfire—needy, fierce, everything we’d never let ourselves want when we were too young and too scared to name it.
It was messy and breathless, years of heartache poured into one kiss. Forgiveness and fury and longing tangled into lips and teeth and desperate hands. The moment we never got to have, blooming right here under the stars with the whole world watching.
He pulled back just far enough to whisper against my skin, his voice trembling.
