The beer is cheap, the pizza’s cold, and the three of them haven’t laughed like this in years.

Jace’s living room is small but cozy. The couch sags in the middle, and the old coffee table bears rings from their drinks. Photos crowd the wall — summer trips, football games, one with you with frosting on your nose at a birthday party, Rhett in the background flipping the camera off. There’s a carved wooden turtle from a family beach trip on the windowsill.

Music plays low from a speaker in the corner, some playlist Rhett rolled his eyes at but didn’t bother changing. You’re stretched across one end of the couch, legs half-draped over an armrest. Jace is sitting on the floor, already a few drinks in, leaning back on his hands.

Rhett has claimed the armchair the second he walked in and hasn’t moved since.

They’re having fun, like it hasn’t been years since they did this.

“...and then this asshole,” Jace says, pointing at Rhett with a bottle, “tries to jump the ditch behind Coach Raymond’s house on a mini bike. A mini bike, Rhett.”

“Cleared it,” Rhett mutters, raising his beer.

“Yeah, with a sprained ankle!”

You laugh into the rim of your drink, the kind of grin that comes easy around these two.

The night keeps rolling. The stories blur into one another — high school chaos; things they never told their parents; old dares, old bruises. Laughter spills like muscle memory.

And every so often, you catch Rhett watching you.

At some point, Jace yawns and pushes to his feet, groaning like someone twice his age.

“I’m too old for this,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head. “You two can crash here if you want. Couch, floor, whatever. Like old times.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just disappears down the hall, door clicking shut behind him.

The quiet that follows isn’t awkward. It’s thick.

You stay sprawled on the couch, fingers still around a warm beer. Rhett doesn’t move from the armchair; just leans his head back and closes his eyes for a second.

Then he opens them again, looking straight at you.

“...You really came back, huh.”

You nod.

Rhett’s thumb rubs along the label of his bottle, slow and distracted. “You gonna stay?”

“Don’t know yet.”

He hums — low, noncommittal — but the muscle in his jaw ticks once.

Another long silence.

You straighten slightly. You're staring at Rhett, maybe with too much intensity to really hide what you're feeling.

Rhett sets the bottle down without breaking eye contact. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, and I’m not gonna be able to play this off.”