I groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. Why, out of all the people in this damn city, did I have to bump into him?
Ben steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t have to look so miserable about it. You might actually have fun.”
I scoff. “I’d rather arrange my own funeral flowers.”
Ben laughs, a deep, genuine sound that rumbles through the quiet morning air. Not the sharp-edged amusement he usually throws my way but real, unguarded.
Something in my chest tightens.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him like this.
Not since before.
Not since everything fell apart fifteen years ago.
I shove the thought away before it can take root, but the damage is done. The past seeps in like smoke, curling around my ribs, thick and suffocating.
I shouldn’t be noticing this.
Shouldn’t be noticing the way his face softens when he laughs, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way, for just a moment, he doesn’t look like Ben Ashcroft, a ruthless businessman and my personal tormentor.
He just looks like the boy I used to know.
The boy I lost.
I grit my teeth, shaking off the thought. That boy isgone.
Ben exhales, still grinning, and tilts his head at me. “You always did have a morbid sense of humour.”
I force a smirk, masking the sudden ache behind my ribs. “Yet, you paid ten grand to spend an evening with me. Who’s the real masochist here?”
His smirk returns, slower this time. “Oh, sweetheart, I never claimed to be anything else.”
Damn him.
Damn him and that voice and that look and the way he always knows how to pull me back into this maddening game.
I open my mouth, probably to insult him again, but a gust of wind cuts through the morning air, making me shiver.
Before I can step back, he reaches out and tugs the edge of my hoodie up, flipping the hood over my head. The movement is so smooth, so unthinking, it knocks the breath out of me for a second.
His hands drop away, but his eyes linger, something unreadable flickering beneath the usual arrogance.
It’s an old habit.
A remnant of a time when he knew me. I hate how that makes my chest tighten.
The moment stretches, heavier than it should be, and suddenly I feel too seen. Too exposed.
I need to go.
“Enjoy your run, Ashcroft,” I say, voice brisk, already stepping back.
“Walk with me?”
It’s not a command. Not a challenge.
Just that, a request.
