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“Blaire?” Simon’s head appears, eyes wary. “You okay?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He steps inside, and I get a proper look at him. His T-shirt is wrinkled, jeans still on but unbuttoned. His hair is a mess, his face blotchy beneath the stubble, and the dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes are impossible to miss.The dark circles and red-rimmed eyes give him away.

“Do you, uh… how do you feel?” he asks, voice rough. He clasps his hands behind his back the way they always are when he’s nervous.

I’m sure I look just as wrecked—makeup smeared, hair a tangled mess, still in last night’s clothes. Hungover as hell.

“Better than I deserve,” I manage.

He opens his mouth, but I cut him off before he can ask.

“I remember.”

He nods, throat working as he swallows. I force myself to meet his eyes, even as my pulse kicks up.

“I meant what I said,” I tell him, voice trembling. “I’m still in love with you. I don’t know how to stop loving you.”

His chest rises sharply, like the words knocked the air out of him. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then he exhales, slow and shaky.

“I meant what I said too,” he replies. “I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I’ve never stopped regretting the choice I made to walk away.” His voice cracks. “If there’s even the smallest part of you that still wants me—if there’s any chance at all—I’ll spend however long it takes proving I’m worth it. I’ll get on my knees and beg if that’s what you need. Just… please. Let me try to earn you back.”

His words send fresh tears springing to my eyes. I want so badly to believe him, but that familiar voice in the back of my head is already screaming that it’s too little, too late. That if he’d really loved me, it would’ve been enough years ago—that he never would’ve left, never would’ve spent the last few years letting me hear about every woman he took to bed after me.

He must see the hesitation on my face, because before I can answer, he drops to his knees. The thud of it reverberates through the floor and straight into my skull.

“Blaire Thomas,” he says, voice raw. “I was a coward. I told myself I was doing the right thing by letting you go, but all I did was destroy the best thing in my life. I’ve hated myself for it every single day since. If you still feel anything for me—anything at all—let me earn my way back. Let me love you the way I should have from the start. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… please. Give me a chance to prove I’m not that same man anymore.”

For a long moment, I just stare at him. My heart is hammering so hard it drowns out everything else. I want to respond, but my thoughts won’t settle—there’s only a high, thin ringing in my ears and the tight, shallow pull of my breath. I think I’m hyperventilating.

“Blaire?” Simon’s voice sounds distant, edged with worry.

I don’t answer. Instead, I scramble off the bed in a rush, tripping over the blankets as I lunge for the trash can in the corner. I barely make it before I’m retching, emptying what’s left of last night—and whatever dignity I had left with it.

Simon is behind me before I can process it, gently gathering my hair back. “Well,” he says dryly, “I don’t think making a woman vomit at the idea of a second chance is a good sign.”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing, the sound raw and shaky. Slowly, I turn to face him, shrugging his hand off my hair as I give him an incredulous look.

He smirks, that same boyish charm I fell for years ago. “Too soon?”

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” I manage, trying not to gag again as another laugh escapes. “It wasn’t your speech.”

His expression softens. “You alright?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just drank too much last night.”

He chuckles quietly. “Yeah, I gathered that when you started telling me how big my dick is.”

I groan and bury my face in his bicep, choosing not to think about how easy it feels to touch him again. “I was trying very hard to forget that part.”

I feel him smile as he presses a tentative kiss to the top of my head. “I thought it was cute. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk before.”

“Because I turn stupid when I drink. Jamie’s a bad influence,” I mumble into his arm. If I weren’t still so nauseous, the solid warmth of him would be distracting in an entirely different way.

“I liked her,” he says. “She talked some sense into me about finally telling you how I felt.”

I pull back just enough to look up at him, searching the little gold flecks in his eyes. “You really want to get back together?” I whisper, my voice small and scared even to my own ears.