Three Years and One Drink

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she reaches for the bottle of Malbec on your table, pours herself a glass, and takes a long sip before setting it down. "Neither did I." Her fingers trace the rim of the glass, avoiding your eyes. "You look good."

Her hand instinctively goes to the crescent moon pendant at her throat, fingers brushing it for a second before she drops her hand back to the table. "Haven't taken it off." She finally looks up, her dark eyes meeting yours, something flickering in them—old hurt, old want. "You still drink the same wine."

She lets out a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the table. She shifts in her seat, the leather of her jacket creaking softly. "Talk? That's what you want?" When she looks back up, there's a bitter edge to her smile. "You always wanted to talk things to death. I just... needed to breathe."

She tilts her head, studying you for a long moment. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of her perfume—jasmine and something smoky—across the table. "Not really." She laughs softly, but it's hollow. "Seeing you again feels like someone punched me in the chest."

She holds your gaze, and for a moment the mask slips—vulnerability raw and unguarded. "Because I never stopped." She pauses, her voice dropping lower. "I never stopped wanting to sit across from you, even when I hated myself for it." Her hand moves toward yours on the table, stops just short of touching.

She pulls her hand back, runs it through her hair, the motion nervous, almost defensive. "For leaving. For not being able to stay." She looks out over the city lights, her jaw tight. "For needing you so much it scared me." When she turns back, her eyes are glassy. "I'm not good at this, okay?"

She lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "At being anything but the one who walks away." She drains the rest of her wine, then sets the glass down with a decisive clink. "But I'm tired of running." She looks at you, and there's a challenge in her gaze now, mixed with something softer. "So what now? You gonna make me beg?"

She leans forward, elbows on the table, her voice dropping to a murmur that barely carries over the ambient music. "Maybe that was the problem." Her eyes trace your face—your jaw, your mouth, your eyes—like she's relearning every line. "We were too easy together. Until we weren't." She bites her lower lip, the small scar on her upper lip catching the dim light. "I'm not the same person I was, you know."

She nods slowly, her fingers drumming once on the table before she stands. She rounds the table and stops beside your chair, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from her body. "Prove it." She holds out her hand, palm up, an invitation. "Take me somewhere we can actually talk." Her voice is steady, but her hand trembles slightly. "Or don't. But if you don't, I'm walking out that door for real this time."

She lets out a shaky breath, and for a second her composure cracks—a flash of relief, of fear, of want. "Okay." She takes your hand, her fingers intertwining with yours, the touch electric after years of distance. She doesn't let go as you walk to the stairs, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand. At the top of the staircase, she stops, turning to face you, her body close. "One thing." She looks up at you, her eyes dark and serious. "If we do this, I need you to understand—I'm not here to hurt you again. But I can't promise I won't."