Soft. Almost careful.
I should say no. I should turn on my heel, go home, burymyself in work, and pretend this moment never happened.
But instead, I hesitate. Ben sees it. He exhales, just barely. “Please.”
It’s quiet. Almost like he doesn’t want to say it, but he does.
Like for the first time since he came back, he’s asking instead of taking.
That throws me and against my better judgment?
I do.
We walk in silence at first.
The morning air is crisp, the city still rubbing the sleep from its eyes. A few early risers pass us, dog walkers, runners, people who have their lives together enough to function before sunrise.
I am not one of them.
Ben moves with that effortless confidence, like he owns the damn pavement. His hands are tucked into his pockets, his long strides forcing me to keep pace.
It’s infuriating how easily he settles into this, like we’ve done it a hundred times before.
Which, of course, we have.
I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie, scanning the park ahead. The path curves toward the high street, toward places we used to haunt as teenagers, cheap diners, late-night corner shops where we’d scrounge together loose change for snacks and then…
The spot.
I slow before I can stop myself.
Ben does too. His gaze flickers toward the alley beside the old bookshop, one that’s been shut down for years, the windows plastered with To Let signs.
I don’t need to look. I know what’s there. The door to the back courtyard.
I know because it’s where he first kissed me.
Not a chaste, sweet peck. Not an uncertain, shy brush of lips.
No. Ben Ashcroft kissed like he wanted to ruin me.
Oh he did.
We were seventeen. It was summer, and I’d just made some sarcastic remark, something about him being insufferable. He looked at me, really looked at me, and then his hands were on my waist, my back pressed against the old wooden door, his mouth on mine, hot and hungry and reckless.
I remember gasping against his lips, the way his fingers dug into my hips, like he couldn’t get close enough. The way I fisted his shirt, holding him there because I didn’t want him to stop. Now the door is weathered and worn, chipped blue paint curling at the edges. It looks smaller. Less significant.
Funny how places change.
Funny how they don’t.
“You remember,” Ben murmurs, his voice low.
I keep my gaze straight ahead. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t push.
Instead, he keeps walking, and I follow.
