Old instincts came back too fast. Protecting her was too easy. Seeing her again hurt too damn much.And she still felt like home — that was the part that gutted him.
The road curved sharply, and he leaned into it harder than he should’ve. The back tire skidded, fishtailing for a heartbeat before catching again. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t care. Let the storm take a swing at him. Let the road try to throw him.
Nothing could hit harder than the memory that slammed into him next.
He hadn’t meant to remember this. He never let himself remember this.
He was seventeen, walking home from the spring dance. Avery’s heels dangled from her fingers, her bare feet padding softly on the pavement. She kept brushing her hair behind her ear, cheeks still flushed from dancing, from laughing, from being the brightest thing in the room.
He remembered thinking she didn’t even know she glowed.
“You didn’t have to walk me home,” she’d said, though she’d looked at him like she was glad he did.
“Yeah, I did,” he’d answered, because he always did.
A breeze picked up, cool against the warm night. She shivered. Without thinking, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It swallowed her whole. She smiled down at it, fingers curling into the sleeves like she was holding onto something precious.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
He couldn’t look at her for a second. Not when she sounded like that.
They reached the corner where their streets split. She stopped, turning toward him, the streetlight catching the gold in her brown eyes. She stepped closer — too close — her breath warm in the space between them.
“Noah?” she whispered.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“Yeah?”
She hesitated, chewing her lip, eyes flicking to his mouth before darting away. “Do you ever… think about things being different?”
He knew what she meant. God, he knew.
He opened his mouth.
He almost said it. Almost told her he thought about it every damn day. Almost closed the distance between them. Almost touched her the way he’d wanted to for years.
But fear won.
Fear of ruining what they had. Fear of not being enough. Fear of losing her before he ever had her.
So he shoved his hands in his pockets and said the safest, stupidest thing he could’ve said.
“You should get home. It’s late.”
Avery’s face fell, just a flicker, but he saw it. She nodded, stepped back, and whispered, “Goodnight, Noah.”
He watched her walk away.
He didn’t sleep right for weeks.
Another memory hit him before he could shove the first one back down.
Avery stood on the curb, suitcase by her feet, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail she kept redoing because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She was trying to smile. Trying to be brave. Trying to pretend she wasn’t ripping his world out from under him.
“Noah,” she’d whispered, voice trembling. “Say something.”
He had. Just not the right thing.
