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The bar is too loud, the kind of loud that gets under your skin and stays there. Clinking glasses, half-shouted laughter, and the heavy bass of music that thuds in your chest like a second heartbeat. You should’ve skipped this reunion.
Nostalgia, as it turns out, is a double-edged sword. The city hasn’t changed much—same old streets, same old haunts—but coming back feels like running your fingers over a scar you thought had healed. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but the sting is there, raw at the edges.
Your drink sits untouched on the counter, condensation pooling around the base. You’re too lost in the ache of everything that made you leave this place—memories you’ve tried to bury—to even pretend you’re having fun. Someone’s laughing behind you, their voice loud and grating, and you turn your head just to escape it.
And that’s when you see him.
Leona Kingscholar.
Your chest tightens, and you feel the floor drop out from under you. He’s sitting across the room, one hand cradling a glass of amber liquid, the other resting casually on the bar. The years haven’t dulled him one bit. His hair is shorter than you remember, his frame broader, his face still sharp enough to cut. And his expression—it’s the same damn unreadable expression that once made you fall so hard it left you shattered.
You almost don’t believe it’s him, but then his eyes flicker up, and they meet yours.
The breath leaves your lungs in a rush, and suddenly, it’s too much. The room feels suffocating, the walls closing in, and you’re choking on everything you thought you’d moved past. The heartbreak, the love that never really left, the ghost of the 20-year-old who walked away from him and spent years regretting it.
His brow furrows as recognition flashes across his face. And something else—something softer, something that tugs at the edges of your chest like a half-forgotten melody. You don’t stay to find out what it is.
You bolt.
Your feet carry you out before your mind catches up, the cool night air slapping against your face as you push the door open. The noise fades behind you, but the ache doesn’t. You lean against the wall of the building, gripping your arms as you try to steady your breathing.
The door creaks open again, and you already know it’s him before you look up.
“Still running, huh?” His voice is low, familiar in a way that cuts through you like glass.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
Leona doesn’t push. He steps closer, slow and measured, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. His eyes flicker over you, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands are clenched into fists. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pen and a folded napkin, and scribbles something down.
He holds it out to you.
“Here,” he says simply. His tone is calm, but there’s something weighty beneath it. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”
You stare at the napkin, your heart pounding in your ears.
And then he walks away.
You watch him go, his back retreating into the night, and it hits you like a freight train: this is exactly how it felt the first time. Watching him leave, knowing you let him go, and hating yourself for it.
Your fingers tremble as they close around the napkin. His number is scrawled there in bold, unmistakable strokes.
You don’t move for a long time.
You don’t even remember dialing the number, only the week of stewing, pacing, and overthinking. By the time his familiar voice comes through the line with a simple, “Hey,” it’s already too late to hang up.
The call is brief, neither of you saying much beyond agreeing to meet at a café. It’s somewhere neutral, safer than a bar or anywhere too familiar. Somewhere with enough noise to fill in the silences you know will come.
When you walk in, he’s already there, lounging in his chair like he owns the place. Leona looks good—too good, damn him. His sharp features are just as you remember, though there’s a little more wisdom, a little more weight, in the way he carries himself. He glances up when he sees you and smirks, the kind of smirk that used to make your heart race.
“Still drinkin’ that sugary monstrosity?” he asks instead of saying hello. His voice is low and warm, but there’s an edge of amusement there.
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Still judging people’s taste in drinks?”
He doesn’t reply, just gets up and goes to the counter. When he comes back, he’s carrying a mug of something steaming and a plate with a pastry you haven’t had in years. You blink as he sets it down in front of you, the scent of sugar and nostalgia filling your senses.
“You didn’t,” you murmur, staring at the drink.
“Didn’t forget,” he says casually, like it doesn’t cost him anything to remember the exact cocktail of syrups, cream, and espresso that kept you alive through your 2 a.m. study sessions.
You take a sip and instantly regret it—not because it’s bad, but because it tastes exactly like the past. Sweet, comforting, and entirely too much for you to handle right now. You set it down carefully, avoiding his gaze.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
He leans back in his chair, watching you with a calculating look that feels far too intimate. “Still like the same pastry too, huh?”
It burns, the way he knows you like this. It’s like roleplay, like the two of you are pretending to be the people you were before—young, dumb, and in love. But the heart wants what it wants, and yours wants to pretend this doesn’t hurt, so you smile and let him pull you back into that version of yourself for a little while.
You catch up. He tells you about his high-ranking position in a mining and energy facility, speaking with a mix of pride and boredom that’s so uniquely Leona. You tell him about the job you'd just left, a high-paying one far, far away from here—far from him. But you don't say that part out loud.
Despite the easy conversation, the weight of everything unsaid hangs between you like a ghost. Neither of you mentions the breakup, the years apart, or the ache that lingers just beneath the surface.
As the afternoon stretches on, he leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “You wanna do this again sometime?”
His voice is casual, but his eyes aren’t. They’re too focused, too sharp, like he’s trying to gauge your reaction.
You hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Sure.”
When he walks you to your door, there’s a beat of awkwardness before you go in for a hug. It’s meant to be brief, but before you can let go, he tightens his arms around you. It’s quick but fierce, like he’s afraid to lose you again. The desperation in it makes your breath hitch, but you don’t question it.
“Bye, Leona,” you say softly, pulling away.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches you disappear inside.
From his point of view, the night is still. He stands on the sidewalk for a long time, hands clenched at his sides, heart aching in a way he hasn’t felt in years.
You’re everything he let slip through his fingers when he was too young and reckless to know better. It didn’t take him long after you left to realize that no one compared—no one could. Every smile, every laugh, every fleeting connection after you felt like a cheap imitation of the real thing.
But now you’re back, and he’s not about to let history repeat itself. Not this time.
Leona calls late in the afternoon, his voice calm and casual as always, but there’s something softer there, like he’s testing the waters. “There’s a carnival in town,” he says. “Thought you might wanna go.”
You freeze, memories rushing back all at once—your younger self, begging him to go with you, wearing him down with your relentless excitement until he had reluctantly agreed. That day had been filled with laughter, teasing, and stolen kisses under the glowing lights, back when you thought you’d have forever with him.
The ache of the past threatens to choke you, but you manage to say, “Yeah. Sure.”
When you meet him at the gates, the air is filled with the familiar scents of fried food and spun sugar, bright lights flickering against the deepening twilight. But this time, it’s different. You’re not dragging him from booth to booth like an overexcited raccoon. The two of you walk side by side, hands brushing occasionally but never quite holding.
You catch glimpses of the past in the present: the way Leona’s lips twitch into the faintest smirk when he sees you eyeing a food stall, the way he steps closer when the crowd gets thicker, shielding you without a word.
Then you reach the prize booth. Leona steps up, picks a game at random, and after a few tries, he tosses a ring perfectly onto the bottle neck. The booth attendant hands him the prize—a hideous stuffed cat with a crooked face and mismatched eyes.
It’s the exact same one he’d won for you back in college, the one you’d carried around all day and stubbornly refused to throw away even after the breakup.
“Seriously?” you manage to say, your voice wobbling as you try to laugh it off. “You had to pick that one?”
He shrugs, a small, knowing grin on his face as he hands it to you. “Figured you still liked ugly cats.”
You clutch the toy to your chest, scrambling to keep yourself together, but the lump in your throat won’t go away. He doesn’t say anything, just lets you gather yourself before moving on to the next thing.
By the time you reach the Ferris wheel, the sun is sinking below the horizon, painting the sky in swirls of orange and pink. The ride attendant seats you in a small, creaky gondola, and the two of you begin your slow ascent.
You look out at the glittering carnival below, but it’s impossible to ignore the weight of where you are—this is where he had asked you to be his, forever, years ago, with that same quiet determination that had always drawn you to him.
Leona leans back, his eyes on the horizon but his words aimed at you. “Y’know,” he starts, his voice low and steady, “I messed up before. Let you go when I shouldn’t have.” He pauses, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee. “But if you’re willing… I wanna try again.”
You turn to look at him, his usual confidence tempered by something raw and vulnerable. Despite all the heartache, all the time apart, you know the truth—you’ve never stopped loving him.
Your voice shakes as you answer, “Okay.”
His lips quirk into a faint smile, and he shifts slightly, just enough for you to lean against his shoulder. The two of you sit like that, watching the sun dip below the horizon, as the Ferris wheel creaks and carries you back down to earth—together, this time.
Leona calls in the morning, his tone gruff but apologetic. “Can’t make it today. Got some work stuff I can’t blow off.”
You’re not upset. Not really. It’s nice, in a way, seeing him so dedicated to something. Back in college, he’d been brilliant but uninterested, letting his talent simmer under a blanket of apathy. This new version of him, the one who actually cared about what he was building, made you proud—even if it meant canceling plans.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “Do what you need to do. We’ll hang out another time.”
You’ve already arrived at the park, though, and there’s no point in lingering. As you turn to leave, a familiar voice calls out behind you.
“Hey! Long time no see!”
You spin around and find Ruggie jogging up to you, a grin plastered across his face. He’s taller now, more put-together, but there’s still that mischievous twinkle in his eyes that makes you smile instantly.
“Ruggie!” you exclaim. “You look good!”
“Not too bad yourself,” he replies, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets. “What’re you doing here all by yourself?”
You explain your canceled plans, and he nods knowingly. “Yeah, the boss has been crazy busy lately. I see it up close now—started working at the same place as him.”
“You work with Leona?” you ask, surprised but happy for him.
“Yup,” Ruggie says, puffing his chest out a little. “Climbing the ladder, bit by bit. Somebody’s gotta keep him in line when he’s slacking off, y’know?”
The conversation shifts to catching up on each other’s lives, and soon enough, the topic drifts back to college.
“Y’know,” Ruggie begins, leaning against a nearby tree, “when you left… it hit him harder than he let on. Took him a while to admit he screwed up, but by the time he wanted to fix things, you’d already transferred out. Guy was gutted.”
You glance down, your fingers brushing the hem of your coat. “I didn’t know,” you admit quietly. “I thought… I thought it didn’t matter to him.”
Ruggie shakes his head. “Nah, it mattered. He just doesn’t talk about that stuff, y’know? Too much pride or whatever. But hey, you’re here now. And trying again, right?”
You nod. “Yeah. We’re giving it another shot.”
He grins, sharp and amused, and starts laughing.
“What’s so funny?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Ah, it’s just—Jack’s gonna owe me big time,” Ruggie explains, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “I made a bet with him back in college. Told him you two’d get back together within ten years. He said no way.”
You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You’re terrible.”
“Hey, I call it entrepreneurial instinct,” he says with a wink. “And what can I say? I know the two of you too well.”
The lightheartedness eases something in your chest, and you’re reminded that even in the midst of all the uncertainty, there’s a piece of your past that feels warm and familiar.
The doorbell rings, and when you open it, you freeze.
Leona stands on your doorstep, sharp as a blade in a perfectly tailored suit, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hand. His usual lazy smirk is in place, but there’s a softness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter.
“Well?” he drawls. “You just gonna stare, or can I come in?”
“Who are you, and what did you do with Leona?” you tease, leaning against the doorframe with a grin.
His ears twitch, and he scowls lightly, though the flush creeping up his neck betrays him. “Tch. You’re lucky I don’t just turn around and leave.”
“Not in those shoes, you’re not,” you quip, eyeing the polished leather. “Come on, you’d ruin them.”
He clicks his tongue, but his lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile. Handing you the bouquet, he steps back to let you admire them. “Hurry up. We’ve got reservations.”
Your teasing dies in your throat for a moment as you take in the effort he’s gone to, and you meet his gaze with a warmth you can’t hide. “Thanks, Leona. You look good.”
“‘Course I do,” he says, but the faint flush on his cheeks gives him away as he glances to the side.
Dinner is perfect—an upscale restaurant with just the right amount of ambiance, and Leona surprises you by actually making conversation instead of just grumbling through the meal. He asks about your work, your plans, and even shares a few stories about his own day.
By the time you’re back at your place, you’re both too full and too comfortable to let the night end.
“Wanna come in?” you ask casually, though your heart thumps a little harder in your chest.
He gives you a knowing look, smirking slightly. “If you’re offering.”
Inside, the two of you end up sprawled on the couch, a movie playing in the background. Somewhere between the second and third act, the weight of the day catches up with you both. You drift off, his arm around your shoulders and his head tilted against yours.
When you wake up, the sunlight is just beginning to stream through the curtains, and you realize you’ve shifted sometime in the night. You’re lying on the couch, and Leona’s face is buried against your neck, his arm draped possessively over your waist.
It’s so familiar, so natural, that it brings a lump to your throat. But this time, the memories aren’t tinged with pain. You feel whole, like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.
Leona stirs, his nose brushing against your collarbone as he blinks awake. His voice is gruff with sleep as he grumbles, “Why’re you smiling? It’s ass-crack morning.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, warm and genuine. “No reason,” you say softly, turning to hug him tighter.
“Tch. You’re weird,” he mutters, but his arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a barely-there kiss to your shoulder before settling back down.
You close your eyes, memorizing the feeling of his warmth, his steady breaths, and the quiet contentment of this moment. For the first time in a long time, everything feels right.
The rescheduled park date feels like a quiet celebration of trying again, an unspoken promise that you’re both willing to make things work this time. The air is crisp, the sunlight dappling through the leaves, and you walk side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing.
For a while, it’s easy—light conversation about work, the occasional tease, the kind of soft ease you’ve started to rediscover with him. But then, as you pass by the fountain, you hear the unmistakable sounds of a couple arguing nearby.
One of them is crying, their voice sharp, accusing. The other is defensive, frustration written all over their face. You avert your eyes, but the scene strikes something in you. You glance at Leona and see it on his face too—the way his jaw tightens, his hands flex at his sides.
It brings you back, sharp and fast, to the way it all unraveled the first time.
You both stop walking, and for a moment, there’s just the distant murmur of water and the occasional birdsong. Then Leona sighs, low and heavy, and leans against the railing by the fountain.
“Y’know,” he starts, his voice quieter than usual, “we should probably talk about… back then.”
You swallow hard, following his lead and leaning beside him. “Yeah. I think we should.”
It all spills out, bit by bit, like picking at an old wound. You tell him how you were so bright-eyed, so hopeful back then, thinking love would solve everything. How you’d wanted a picture-perfect romance, the kind you saw in movies, with sweet words and grand gestures.
“And you weren’t that guy,” you say, not unkindly. “You were… real. Frustrated, angry, dealing with your own stuff. And I couldn’t see past my own expectations to meet you where you were.”
Leona’s quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. Then he says, “I wasn’t much better, y’know. Kept thinking you’d wake up one day and realize I wasn’t worth the trouble. That you’d see how much of a mess I was and bail. Guess I tried to beat you to the punch.”
His words make your chest ache, and you think back to that last fight, the one that broke everything.
“I remember,” you say softly. “I was so mad at you for pushing me away. I screamed that you didn’t love me, and… God, I didn’t even mean it. I just wanted you to fight for me.”
Leona lets out a bitter chuckle, his fingers gripping the railing. “And I didn’t. Thought walking away would hurt less than hearing you say it again.”
For a long moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of old mistakes hanging between you.
“But we’re not those kids anymore,” you finally say, your voice firmer. “I’ve grown up. I know love isn’t perfect. It’s messy, and hard, and sometimes it hurts. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”
Leona glances at you, his eyes softer than you’ve seen them in years. “Yeah, well… I’m not that idiot from back then either. Took me a while, but I figured out that… you loved me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
You reach out, your fingers brushing his. “Let’s not make those mistakes again. Let’s just… talk. Be honest with each other. No more second-guessing.”
He nods, and when he takes your hand, his grip is warm and steady. “Deal. No running this time.”
You smile at him, small but genuine, and squeeze his hand. “Deal.”
And as you continue your walk, the sunlight seems a little brighter, the air a little lighter, as if the park itself knows you’ve turned a corner.
The café feels warm and familiar, a comforting mix of nostalgia and new beginnings. You’re seated at a round table with some of the faces you once knew so well—Rook, Vil, Trey, and Riddle. It’s strange how time has shifted them all, smoothing out edges while deepening others.
Rook, ever the enigma, waves off your questions about his career with a dazzling grin and a cryptic, “Ah, ma chérie, some mysteries are best left unsolved.” You decide to let it go when he winks at you dramatically and leans back like he’s some international spy.
Vil, unsurprisingly, radiates effortless elegance as he sips his tea. His sharp cheekbones and tailored outfit scream superstar, and he gives you a small, knowing smile when you tell him how much you’ve admired his recent work. “Well, darling, excellence demands attention. But enough about me,” he says, leaning forward with an almost imperceptible softness in his gaze. “How have you been holding up?”
Trey sits beside him, calm and grounded as always. There’s a faint dusting of flour on his sleeve, a reminder of his time spent in the family bakery. He listens with a small, contented smile as you catch up, occasionally chiming in with a joke or a warm anecdote.
Riddle looks startlingly different from the college version you knew. There’s still the meticulous sharpness in his posture, but his eyes are softer, his tone more relaxed. You’d heard he became a lawyer, and from the quiet pride in his voice when he talks about his recent cases, you can tell he’s damn good at it.
When the conversation inevitably shifts to you and Leona, you hesitate. The table goes quiet, and four pairs of eyes—each sharp in their own way—lock onto you.
“Well,” you say, fiddling with your cup. “We’re… trying again.”
Rook’s smile falters for just a second before he leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. “Ah, l’amour fou. It is a brave and treacherous thing, non? I wish you all the happiness in the world, but…” He hesitates, and for once, his voice lacks its usual poetic flourish. “Take care, my dear. You burned so brightly back then, and we all saw how hard the fall was.”
Vil’s expression tightens slightly, his fingers curling around his cup. “He has a lot to prove this time,” he says, his tone measured. “But if anyone can keep him in line, it’s you.”
Trey hums, glancing at Riddle. “If he messes up again, we’ve got backup now. Riddle can prosecute him for emotional damages.”
Riddle adjusts his tie, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”
The laughter that ripples through the group is lighthearted, but the underlying support is tangible, almost overwhelming.
You feel a knot in your chest loosen as you look around the table. They care, even after all this time. Despite their reservations, they trust you to know what’s best for yourself.
And in that moment, surrounded by old friends who’ve grown and changed but still remain the same at their core, you feel a piece of yourself you thought was lost slowly start to return.
The afternoon sun filters lazily through the windows of Leona’s home, casting a warm glow across the room. You’re perched on the couch, cross-legged, scrolling through your phone and occasionally showing Leona something ridiculous. He’s sprawled out beside you, one arm draped along the back of the couch, the other resting on his chest as he listens to your laughter.
“Look at this,” you say, grinning as you hold your phone up to him. “Who even comes up with these memes?”
Leona leans in, his sharp eyes skimming the screen before letting out a low, amused snort. “Idiots, clearly,” he says, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that gives him away.
Your laughter rings out again, light and unrestrained, and Leona watches you. Watches the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, the way you throw your head back, carefree and radiant.
It hits him all at once.
He can’t lose this again. Can’t lose you again.
The thought burns in his chest, threatening to choke him, until he blurts out: “Be mine again.”
Your laughter fades as you turn to him, surprised. “What?”
He sits up, his gaze steady but his ears twitching slightly. “I’m serious,” he says, voice low but firm. “I messed it up before, but I’m not gonna do that again. You’ve always been it for me. So… be mine. For real this time.”
For a moment, you’re silent, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. His expression is raw, his usual confidence stripped away to reveal something vulnerable and achingly sincere.
You nod, your voice soft but sure. “Okay. Yes.”
The tension in his shoulders melts as relief washes over him. A slow, almost disbelieving smile spreads across his face, and he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms.
“‘Bout time,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in his tone. Just a quiet, overwhelming joy that he doesn’t bother hiding.
You laugh, your face pressed against his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he says, resting his chin on top of your head. “But you said yes, so who’s the real fool here?”
You smack his arm lightly, but your grin betrays you. As his arms tighten around you, you can’t help but think that this—this warmth, this love—is exactly where you’re meant to be.
The familiar sound of your shared front door closing behind you feels like the exhale of a long day. You kick off your shoes, dropping your bag onto the entryway table, and glance back to see Leona loosening his tie with a tired smirk.
“Finally home,” he mutters, stepping over to pull you into a soft, lingering kiss.
You smile against his lips. “Long day?”
“Always,” he replies, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Go shower. I’ll figure out dinner.”
“You spoil me,” you tease, heading toward the bathroom.
His chuckle follows you down the hall. “Damn right I do.”
By the time you emerge, refreshed and in comfier clothes, the scent of takeout wafts through the house. You find Leona at the dining table, the food already unpacked and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He looks up as you sit down and slides your favorite dish toward you without a word, but the small grin on his face says it all.
“So, how was your day?” you ask, taking a bite.
He leans back in his chair, his gaze softening as he recounts his work. “Not bad. Ruggie’s really stepping up these days—caught something even I missed during a proposal meeting. I’ve gotta admit, the guy’s making himself indispensable.”
You laugh. “Ruggie’s always been sharp. I’m sure he’s just waiting for the right moment to ask for a raise.”
Leona snorts. “He’s already hinting at it. Not subtle at all.”
“And what about you?” he asks, watching you with quiet interest.
You shrug, grinning. “Same old. Meetings, deadlines, and trying to convince my coworker that microwaving fish in the breakroom is a crime against humanity.”
He raises a brow. “Still working with amateurs, huh?”
“Always.”
The conversation meanders to weekend plans, and you both agree to invite your friends out for dinner. You bring up Riddle’s work stress, Vil’s latest award, and Trey’s new dessert line, while Leona adds in snippets about Ruggie and Jack, his voice tinged with fondness he doesn’t bother to hide anymore.
Later, as the night stretches on, the two of you settle into bed. The familiar warmth of his arm around your waist pulls you closer, his head resting against yours.
You sigh, content. “Coming back here, to you, was the best decision I’ve ever made.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then his lips brush against your hair. “Thanks for choosing me. Again.”
You tilt your head to meet his gaze, brushing your fingers against his jaw. “There was no other choice. Nobody ever compares.”
His lips curve into that cocky smirk you know so well, but his eyes are soft, filled with a depth of affection that steals your breath. “Tch. Sappy as ever, huh?”
“You love it,” you retort, rolling your eyes.
“Damn right I do,” he mutters, and then his smirk fades as he cups your face and kisses you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.
By the time you both pull away, breathless and tangled in each other’s warmth, he holds you close, murmuring softly, “We’re doing this right this time. No mistakes.”
You nod, resting your head against his chest as his heartbeat lulls you to sleep. “No mistakes.”