His mouth curves, humorless. “That’s one word for it.”
There’s more he’s not saying. I feel it in the intensity of his stare, the exhaustion around his eyes, the way his hand tightens around his beer bottle like it’s the only steady thing he’s got left to hold onto.
And then, just for a beat, the heaviness shifts. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering a second too long, and it’s like the whole bar tilts around us.
My breath stumbles. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His voice is quiet, rough, threaded with something I don’t dare name.
“Look at me like that.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not amusement, its resignation. “I don’t know how else to look at you.”
The words hit harder than they should, they’re too heavy and too familiar.
I step back before I forget how to. My bag strap digs into my shoulder, grounding me. “I should find Ellie.”
“Yeah.” He says it like he doesn’t mean it, like the word itself is a lie.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Just stares. The noise of The Bar roars back in around us, but all I feel is the pull I swore I was done with.
Then someone calls his name from the pool table, and the spell snaps.
I turn first. My hands shake as I turn to find Ellie, and I don’t dare look back.
But I already know he’s still watching.
I make it to Ellie, order a few drinks, and try to lose myself in whatever story she’s telling. I nod at the right places, even force a smile when she gives me a look, but my head isn’t here. It’s still across the room, pinned by his stare.
I last another twenty minutes, maybe. Long enough to pretend I’m fine, long enough for Ellie to stop watching me so closely. But the truth is, I can’t breathe in there, not with him so close.
That weight sits between my shoulder blades the whole walk home, pressing harder with every step until I’m inside my house, door locked, bag dropped, and I still can’t shake it.
I should feel nothing. That’s what I’ve been telling myself for a year. What I rehearsed every time I remembered the wedding, every time I forced myself to imagine him happy with her. It was supposed to kill what I felt. To burn it out of me.
But seeing him tonight only reminded me that it never went anywhere.
I toe off my shoes and wander to the kitchen, pouring a glass of water just to have something to do with my hands. My reflection in the dark window stares back, pale and shaken. Like I’ve seen a ghost. Maybe I have. Because the man at The Bar wasn’t the Jace I knew. He looked older. Tired. Worn. And yet the moment his eyes locked on me, everything inside me snapped to life like no time had passed at all.
I hate myself for it. Hate that I still want him, still ache for him like I’m back in college again sneaking kisses in the dark, like nothing in the world could touch us. Except now everything can.
The couch feels too big when I drop onto it, glass clutched in my hand, phone buzzing somewhere in my bag. Probably Ellie, checking in. I don’t have the energy to answer. All I can do is sitin the quiet and replay every second of his voice saying my name, rough and low, like it still meant something to him.
It shouldn’t. Not anymore. He belongs to someone else. He always has.
But my body doesn’t listen to reason.
By the time I crawl into bed, my chest is tight with it. I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, then roll to my side, then back again. Nothing helps. The sheets are cool, the night too quiet. My brain won’t let me rest.
I remember what it used to be like with him. The nights I stayed too long, the line we swore we wouldn’t cross again, the way the world shrank to only us. Back then, lying awake meant thinking about what it would be like to finally be his.
Now it means thinking about how he’s someone else’s husband.
The ring on his finger flashes in my mind like a warning light. A wall I can’t climb. And yet all I want to do is throw myself against it until it breaks.
I roll to my side, bury my face in the pillow, and let the truth bleed out where no one can hear it.
I still love him. God help me, I do. And I don’t know how to stop.
