He didn’t ask.
Justtookmy hand.
We leave before anyone can corner us. He drives. I watch the snow start to fall, slow and heavy, blurring the streetlights into soft halos. My gown feels surreal now, like a costume from another life. All that build-up. All that spectacle.
“I didn’t even get a dance,” I say quietly, not realizing I’ve said it out loud.
Leo doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he turns the wheel.
We’re climbing the road before I fully realize where we’re going. The cliffs. Our cliffs. The place where everything started before it broke.
He parks at the overlook, shuts off the engine. The wind howls the second the doors open, icy and sharp. Snow swirls sideways, sticking to my lashes.
“You sure?” I ask.
He smiles. Soft. Real. “Yeah.”
He rolls down all the windows anyway, like he used to. The cold floods the car. Then music. Slow. Familiar in the way it feels rather than sounds. Piano first. A low, steady beat. A song about timing and almosts and loving someone even when you’re afraid.
“Come here,” he says.
We don’t talk about how ridiculous we look. Evening clothes. Snow. Wind screaming off the ocean.
He takes my hands.
And suddenly it is just the two of us.
No phones. No cameras. No audience.
We sway, barely moving, my forehead resting against his chest. His hands are warm. Steady. Like they’ve always been meant to be right there.
“This feels like…” I start, then stop.
“Like what?” he asks.
I swallow. “Like it used to. Just us.”
The words hang between us.
Then he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not cautious. It’s everything we never said. Every fight. Every voicemail. Every night I pretended I didn’t still want him. His hands are in my hair. Mine are gripping his coat like if I let go I’ll fall off the edge of the world.
It devastates me how much it still fits.
I pull back first, breath shaking.
“Just because I feel this,” I say, pressing my hand to my chest, “and just because I still love you… doesn’t mean I think we should get back together. That I should be your girlfriend again.”
The words hurt coming out.
They hurt him too. I see it. He inhales like he’s bracing himself.
“I know,” he says quietly.
“It almost hurts more saying it out loud,” I whisper.
