Juliette:
We sat there, side by side at his kitchen counter, eating Chinese food out of paper cartons with plastic forks and shared glances that lingered a little too long. It was warm. Easy. Nice.
Too nice.
Because every now and then, when she let herself look at him fully—really look at him—I could see him. The boy who used to walk me to class, who used to pull me into his lap during late-night movie marathons, who used to whisper "I got you, Jules" in my ear when the world felt too loud.
He was older now. Sharper jaw. Broader shoulders. Tattoos peeking beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt. But those same warm, kind eyes hadn’t changed a bit.
And it felt like nothing between us had either.
Even though everything had.
They talked in little doses—light things. Nothing too heavy. Not y
