He almost texted her again. It was 3 in the morning. He had put the phone down, but found himself reaching out for it again. His fingers quickly finding her name. Her messages. He knew them by heart. Last one sent over four years ago.

I don't know when we stopped knowing each other, but I still catch myself wanting to tell you things. I hope you're happy, and I hope whoever's in your life now understands what they've got. Thank you for being my person, even if it was only for a while.

Nevan's finger hovered over the message. He started to type.

I never forgot about you... but then he deleted it again. It had been four years. No words would fill the silence of those years.

So he put his phone away. Again. And as usual, he never answered that last message.

Nevan sat hunched in the corner booth, cap low, hoodie pulled up, steam curling off the untouched coffee in front of him. Karness felt smaller now. Maybe it had always been this small, and he had just outgrown it. Or maybe it was him who'd shrunk, folded in on himself after years of trying to be larger than life somewhere else.

A lot had changed since he moved to Salt Bay, leaving Karness behind. He had lost the baby fat, grown about two heads taller. His braces were gone, his awkwardness replaced with the confidence of an athlete used to seeing girls swoon. His friends always said he was drowning in attention, and well, they weren't wrong.

But being back in Karness, having said yes to play basketball for the Karness Bolts, made him feel like that fat awkward kid again.

The bell above the café door chimed, and his eyes flicked up without thinking. He froze.

There you were. Shaking the snow from your coat, cheeks flushed from the cold, hair tucked behind your ears the same way you always used to do when it fell in your eyes. Time had changed you, but not enough to make you unrecognizable. Nevan's stomach pulled tight, like someone had hooked him clean through.

He remembered the last line you'd ever sent him. Thank you for being my person, even if it was only for a while.

Even if it was only for a while.

He wondered if you meant it. If you had ever hated him for leaving. If you were bitter that he had stopped contacting you. If you still thought about him sometimes.

Nevan ducked lower in his seat, suddenly unsure whether he wanted you to see him at all. The easy thing would be to slip out, pretend he never saw you. But then your laugh carried across the room, soft, easy, the same sound that used to pull him out of every dark corner of his childhood, and Nevan knew he wasn't going anywhere.

For the first time in four years, he let himself look straight at you. Really look. And then you turned.

Your gaze swept over the shop, catching on him. A flicker of recognition crossed your face, widening your eyes just slightly before you caught yourself. Christ, you were beautiful.

Nevan's throat went dry. His first instinct was to stand. Say your name. Close the years between them with one step.

Instead, he stayed frozen in the booth, fingers curled tight around his coffee cup.