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    Summary

    There's a presence next to him, someone standing at his side, seemingly debating on whether or not they should take a seat in the recently vacated barstool. He can't look. He can't look. He wants to look so badly, but it feels as if his lungs had exhaled every bit of air they'dd been filled with and he's been left floundering for another gasp of oxygen.

    Don't look, don't look, don't look, he tells himself, the grip on his glass so tight that his knuckles are white. Jesus Christ, he needs to get a grip. His guards are all up, his senses heightened because this is his first time back in London. But god, the chances of running into Henry, realistically, are 1 in almost 9 million. It's not Henry. It's not Henry. It's not-

    “Alex?”

    Well, fuck.

    OR

    A Summer Switcheroo fic for tasteofoxidation based on their prompt: "the one that got away" and the song (or lyrics from) Blush by Orville Peck

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