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Patrick grinned across the table, hands folded as if he were in court awaiting a verdict. “I did.”

“From scratch?”

“Three tries. The first one could’ve doubled as a brick. Second one almost caught fire. Third one... well, that’s what you’re eating now.”

“Who even are you?” I asked, reaching for another piece before I finished the first.

“Someone who paid very close attention to your face the first time I took you to Giardanno's Pizza place.”

My heart clenched so hard I nearly dropped the plate.

Giardanno had been our favorite restaurant.

Maybe because it was the only one that worked within our teenage budget, or maybe because the food was delicious.

I took a sip of wine to cover up how much his words affected me.

How much he affected me. We moved through the courses slowly.

Every dish—from bruschetta al pomodoro to lasagna—wasn't anything overly fancy, but it was thoughtful, perfect, and delicious. Each plate tasted like memory and longing and quiet apologies. He wasn’t trying to impress me with extravagance. He was trying to show me he remembered.

By the time we got to dessert, I was full. He poured me another glass of wine—Chianti—and placed a little ramekin in front of me. Molten chocolate cake. I stared at it for a full ten seconds. “You remembered this?”

He grinned, "How could I forget? You had it every time!"

I laughed softly; it slipped out before I could stop it.

But he didn’t smile this time. He just looked at me.

Really looked at me. Like he was looking at the girl sitting next to him in that tacky, red plastic booth.

But also, like he saw something more—much more.

I didn’t know what to say. So instead, I reached for the spoon and took a bite.

The moment the chocolate hit my tongue, rich and melty and painfully familiar, I closed my eyes and whispered, “Okay, fine. This was a damn good dinner.”

Patrick chuckled, making me realize that I wanted to hear that sound again.

Maybe a thousand more times. Gently, I set the spoon down, trying not to let my fingers shake.

The night had slipped into that golden quiet—the kind where time didn’t matter and every glance felt like a question waiting to be answered.

He leaned back in his chair, wineglass cradled in one hand, and looked at me in a way that said he could look at me forever. And I… I kind of wanted him to. Which was a terrifying thought.

“So,” he said, voice soft now, “was it worth it?”

I tilted my head, pretending to think. “The bread, yes. The lasagna, absolutely. The chocolate cake sealed the deal.”

“But?”

I hesitated. “But… it’s not the food that scares me.”

He didn’t say anything, just waited—steady and quiet, like he knew not to push this time. I took another sip of wine. “It’s how easy it is to be here with you. How comfortable. How familiar. Like no time has passed. Like I never had to stitch myself back together.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Silence fell again, but it didn’t feel empty.

It felt full.

“I’ve missed you,” he said finally. “Every version of you. But especially this one.”

My throat tightened. Before I could respond, a breeze stirred the candle flames, and one flickered out, plunging half the table in shadow.

Patrick stood and stepped around the table, grabbing a lighter from the basket.

He lit it again, but didn’t sit back down.

Instead, he offered me a hand. “Come on.”

I stared at it. “Where?”

He grinned. “Over there.”

He gestured toward the firepit in the clearing’s corner. It was already glowing, low and warm, throwing soft amber light over the little stack of folded blankets.

“I’m not slow dancing in the woods,” I said, even as my hand moved toward his.

“I didn’t say anything about dancing,” he replied. “But for the record, I have it on good authority that I’m excellent at it.”

“Who told you that?”

“You. Junior prom. Two glasses of sparkling apple cider and a slow song later, you told me I was shockingly coordinated.”

“God, that dress was hideous.”

“You wore it like it was couture.”

“You kissed me behind the bleachers.”

“Best three minutes of my life.”

I rolled my eyes, laughing as I stood. “You really haven’t changed that much.”

He tugged me gently closer. “No. Just enough.”

We walked to the fire, and, from out of nowhere, soft music started to play.

You Are the Reason by Calum Scott . Our song.

Tears stung my eyes, and as if in a trance, I allowed Patrick to pull me into his strong arms. So different from ten years ago, and yet so achingly familiar.

I leaned into his chest, listened to the soft drum of his heart, felt his strength surrounding me, and it was as if time had reversed.

It was us.

Then.

Now.

My arms moved around his wide chest; my fingers dug into his hair, longer now but still the same.

I breathed in his familiar scent: pine, smoke, and his own musk.

My chest filled and constricted at the same time.

I closed my eyes and let myself go to the gentle sway of him and the music.

I allowed myself to float. To be swept away by my emotions, by being here, back in his arms. After all this time.

I felt his lips softly brushing my forehead, his kiss felt sweet and guilt-filled on my skin. I clung to him, thinking I could never let him go again.

And realized with a start that yes, he had shattered my heart when I was a teenager, but I’d put it back together, a bit crooked, a bit broken still, but back together.

I'd already suspected that I wouldn't survive if it happened a second time, but in that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that if I gave it back to him, and he did it again, there would be nothing left to rebuild.

It wouldn't simply kill me. He would rip me into millions of pieces.

There were fates worse than dying, and he had the power to completely obliterate me.

With a cry, I pulled back, staring up at him.

"Ells?"

I started shaking my head, "I can't, Pats. I'm sorry. I just can't!"

The last bit, I screamed. Then I ripped out of his hold and started running.