Ashlyn
The momentthe model steps onto the runway, my pen freezes midair.
Black leather pants with chain accents. A torn red shirt beneath a fitted leather jacket that catches the light just right, glittering like the stormy sky in my memories. It’s bold, unapologetic—rebellion stitched into fabric.
And it takes me back.
I can’t stop it. The memory slams into me, pulling me under like a rip current.
The awful party. The rain. The kiss. And everything that kiss started.
I suck in a breath. I thought at the time,This is it. This is where everything changes.
And it had.
Now, sitting here in this studio, years later, that moment feels as raw and vivid as if it just happened.
The model keeps walking, but I can’t move. My pen hangs limply in my hand, my heart caught somewhere between the past and the present.
I force my gaze back to the runway, trying to focus, but the memory clings to me. I don’t dare glance at the stage where the guys are playing. I can feel West’s eyes on me, though, like he knows exactly where my mind just went.
And maybe he does. Maybe he went there too.
I fight to pull myself together.It’s just an outfit, I tell myself. Just a stupid jacket and some pants. It’s not him.
But my heart doesn’t care.
It’s still sixteen. It’s still standing in the rain, holding onto the boy who was my first everything.
And no matter how much I try to bury it, that night will always be a part of me.
My fingers tighten around the tablet, my grip almost painful as I try to force the memory back into the box where it belongs. But the ache in my chest, the heat rising to my face—it doesn’t fade.
I keep my focus on the model, watching her stride confidently down the runway in the outfit that’s somehow managed to rip open old wounds I thought were long healed.
It’s just clothes. Just a stupid outfit.
Even after two more models, I can’t shake the feelings.
The air feels different now, heavier. I feel it like a current pulling at me, and before I can stop myself, my gaze flickers to the stage where the guys are still playing.
West is already looking at me.
His fingers are steady on the strings of his guitar, but his eyes—God, his eyes—are locked on mine, dark and intense, like he’s been waiting for me to look at him. The connection is instant, like it always is, and my breath catches in my throat.
I try to look away, but I can’t.
His gaze is unrelenting, holding me in place, and suddenly it’s like the years between us have disappeared. He’s not the rockstar standing on a stage in front of cameras and lights. He’sthe boy who kissed me in the rain, the boy who made my heart race in a way no one else had before then..
For a moment, everything else fades—the runway, the music, the buzz of the crew. It’s just him, just us, like it was that night.
But it’s not that night. It’s now.
The moment presses down on me, and I feel exposed, like he can see straight through me to the emotions I’ve been trying to hide. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—something raw and unspoken—that sends a shiver down my spine.
I force myself to look away, dropping my gaze back to my tablet, pretending to type something even though my hand is trembling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the flicker of movement as he looks down at his guitar, his fingers moving seamlessly across the strings. He doesn’t miss a beat, but I know he felt it too.
