I knocked once and waited, flowers in hand, nerves already doing laps in my chest. I shifted on the crutch, trying not to look as awkward as I felt. I wasn’t used to this—showing up at a girl’s door, dressed like I gave a damn, holding wildflowers like I hadn’t almost chickened out three times on the way over.
Then the door opened, and my brain short-circuited.
She was wearing red.
And not just any red—that kind of red. The kind that made everything else blur out. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, soft waves catching the light, and her eyes—God, her eyes looked like they knew exactly what they were doing to me.
“Hey,” I managed, holding out the flowers like a peace offering. “For you.”
Her voice was quiet when she took them. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”
I smiled, because what else could I do? “Not as beautiful as you.”
She blushed. Actually blushed. “Stop it.”
I chuckled. “Come on. Let’s go.”
The city was lit like something out of a movie—streetlights glowing gold, air crisp, everything quiet in that rare, perfect way. I walked beside her slower than usual, more from my busted knee than anything else, but she didn’t seem to mind. She matched my pace like it was natural.
When we got to the restaurant, I was floored. Twinkling lights, brick walls that looked older than us, warm garlic in the air, soft jazz curling through the background—Zara had clearly picked this place. I made a mental note to thank her. Loudly.
I pulled out her chair like a dork and sat across from her, wondering how the hell I was supposed to act normal when she looked like that.
“Glad you agreed to come,” I said. Quiet. Honest.
She nodded. “Me too.”
And then I said the thing that had been hanging over my head since high school. “I’m sorry. For leaving you behind. For not reaching out after high school. I was scared, and stupid.”
She reached across the table. Her fingers brushed mine—steady, warm, real.
“I’m willing to try again,” she said.
My heart did this stupid full-body exhale. “Really?”
“Really.”
We shifted then, back into something easier. Something us.
“So,” she said, stirring her water with that smirk I hadn’t seen in years, “remember when you thought you could beat me at Mario Kart back in high school?”
I grinned. “Hey, I let you win. Totally fair play.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, right. That’s what they all say.”
I leaned in, hand braced on the table. “Okay, maybe I let you win once… but you got lucky.”
She laughed—loud, real. “Lucky? I think you just didn’t want to admit defeat.”
“Defeat? Me?” I shook my head. “Never. I was just giving you a false sense of security.”
She rolled her eyes. “That false sense is why you kept asking for rematches.”
“You were too competitive,” I shot back. “Remember how you’d throw the controller down when you lost?”
“That was once,” she said quickly. “And it was a very intense match.”
I smiled. “Yeah, you definitely scared me a few times.”
Then she turned the tables. “What about your habit of always being late? You missed so many practice drills because you slept in.”
I smirked. “I had a system. Keep everyone waiting, look more important.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You were just lucky Coach was too tired to yell at you.”
“And you?” I pointed. “You were the queen of last-minute cramming for tests.”
“That’s because I work better under pressure.”
I leaned back, arms crossed. “Sure you do. Pressure, or panic?”
She bumped her elbow into me. “Same difference.”
We laughed—God, we laughed. And for a second, it felt like everything we lost had just… waited for us. Like we’d paused, not ended.
“Feels good,” I said, quieter. “Talking like this.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It really does.”
Then her phone buzzed.
I watched her face change—eyes dropping, mouth still, all that warmth draining out in one slow second. She froze.
“What is it?” I asked, already knowing I wouldn’t like the answer.
Her hand tightened around her phone. I leaned in.
And then I saw it. The headline.
Lucas Rivera accused of harassing former physical therapist.
The room didn’t get quiet. I did.
Every muscle in my body locked up as I stared at the words. My name. That accusation. The same lie that almost ruined me once—and now, here it was again. Slapping us both in the face.
She looked up at me, stunned.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Our perfect night had just shattered.