"You're freezing," he said immediately, starting to shrug off his jacket.
"I'm fine?—"
"You're not. Take it." He draped it over my shoulders before I could protest, and the warmth of it, the smell of him, cedar and something clean, surrounded me like an embrace.
"Thank you," I managed.
"We should probably head back," he said, but made no move to get up.
"Probably."
Neither of us moved.
"Charlotte." His voice was low, serious. "Can I... would it be okay if I got your number? Maybe we could get coffee sometime. Without the terrible DJ and the suspicious punch."
The hope in his voice, tentative and almost afraid, made my heart ache. "I'd like that."
We exchanged phones, our fingers brushing during the handoff. The contact sent electricity up my arm. I typed my number into his phone with slightly trembling hands, and when I handed it back, his name glowed on my screen:Miles Cameron.
It felt surreal. Like something I'd imagined so many times, it couldn't possibly be real.
The walk back to the parking lot was quiet, both of us wrapped in the strange, fragile magic of the evening. My car was parked a few spots from his; a sleek, dark sedan that looked as out of place in the high school lot as he had in the gymnasium.
We stopped between our vehicles. The lot was mostly empty now, just a few stragglers lingering near the entrance.
"Well," he said, hands in his pockets again. "This was..."
"Unexpected," I finished.
"The best part of my last three months." The honesty of it was stark, almost painful in its simplicity.
My breath caught. "Mine too."
We stood there, too close for two people who were just saying goodnight. The space between us hummed with everything we hadn't said, every year we'd missed, every question still unanswered. I noticed the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the silver at his temples, the way he held himself carefully, like he was bracing against something I couldn't see.
He was still so beautiful. But the boyish ease was gone, replaced by something more weathered, interesting, and real.
I wanted to reach up and touch his face. To trace the changes time had written there. To close the distance between us and see if fifteen years had changed the way we fit together.
His gaze dropped to my lips for just a second, one heartbeat, maybe two, before snapping back to my eyes.
"I'll call you," he said, his voice rough. "For that coffee."
"Okay."
Neither of us moved.
The tension crackled between us like static electricity before a storm. It would have been so easy to lean in, to close the gap, to find out if the past still fit.
But the moment was too fragile. Too new. Burdened with unanswered questions and fifteen years of silence.
"Goodnight, Charlotte," he said finally, taking a deliberate step back. The distance felt physical, like losing warmth.
"Goodnight, Miles."
I got into my car, my hands trembling slightly on the wheel. In my rearview mirror, I could see him still standing beside his sedan, watching me pull away. I took small glances at the rearview until his silhouette disappeared into the darkness.
The drive home was a blur of streetlights and racing thoughts. I kept replaying the evening in my head: his laugh, his voice, the way he'd looked at me like I was something precious he'd lost and couldn't quite believe he'd found again.The warmth of his jacket still wrapped around my shoulders, carrying his scent.
