He looks older.
Harder.
Like the years carved the softness out of him and left only control.
But it’s him.
God help me, it’s really him.
His gaze locks on mine.
No smile.
No relief.
Just that sharp, devastating stare that used to see straight through me.
“Ava.”
My grip tightens on the bag strap.
“Didn’t think dead men texted now.”
His jaw flexes once.
“Cute. You’re late.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
“Eight years, Ethan.”
His expression doesn’t shift.
“I noticed.”
The wind cuts between us, icy and thin.
Neither of us moves closer.
Neither of us is stupid enough for that.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” I say.
“You sent my name.”
His eyes drop briefly to the bag, then back to me.
“What do you have?”
I let out a breath.
Still Ethan.
Straight to the point.
Still asking the question underneath all the others.
