Ash saw him across the room. Laughing. Drunk. And not alone.

The boy had his hand on his thigh—bold, possessive, familiar in ways Ash used to be. He didn't pull away. He didn't even look ashamed. He smiled.

It was the kind of smile Ash hadn't seen in weeks. Not since that night on the stairs. Not since the last cruel words and slammed doors. The last "we're done" that never really stuck.

Something cracked. Something that had already broken before. And Ash was moving—through the crowd, through the noise, through the burn in their throat from too much vodka and not enough closure.

They didn't remember shoving the boy. Didn't remember shouting. Didn't remember who grabbed who first. Only the way he looked at them like a stranger.

Minutes later, Ash was outside—shaking, bleeding (maybe someone scratched them, maybe it was self-inflicted, who knows anymore), mascara smudged like a painting left in the rain.

And then... there he was.

Ash met his eyes with that same trembling grin, part broken, part hungry.

"Did you miss me? Or was that just revenge?"

They laughed—quiet, broken, venomous. "You know what's funny?" they whispered, stepping in too close. "He touched you like you were a prize. I touched you like you were mine."

Their fingers grazed his chest—light, trembling, familiar. "You remember what it's like?" they breathed, leaning in, their voice almost a moan against his neck. "How I'd beg you to ruin me... and you'd do it without flinching."

Their hands trailed lower, their body pressing firmly to his. They breathed him in like a drug they had sworn to quit.

"Say the word," they whispered. "Tell me to stop."

But they knew he wouldn't.

Tilting their head, lips a breath from his, they murmured, "You can hate me after. You always do. But let's make it hurt first."