Three days.
It had been threewholedays since the dance.
Three days since Ace Carter looked me in the eyes, cracked open a piece of his past, and then… walked away.
Typical.
Melanie was thrilled. "He showed his true colors. You dodged a heartbreak."
But I didn't feel like I'd dodged anything. I felt like I was stuck in between—half missing him, half angry at myself for missing him at all.
Because I'd seen it. The real Ace. Not the reputation. Not the rumors.
Just a boy trying sohard to carry pain without letting anyone see him stagger.
And he staggered anyway.
---
Tuesday morning, I sat at my usual window seat in HollowBeanCafé, scribbling in my journal, trying to pretend I wasn't hoping he'd walk in.
I'd written and rewritten the same line five times:
"What if he's not the villain? What if he's just the boy who was never allowed to be the hero?"
"Is that about me?"
My heart jumped into my throat.
I looked up—and there he was.
Ace.
Gray hoodie. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair messy, like he'd run a hand through it a thousand times before walking in.
He slid into the seat across from me without asking.
I blinked. "How did you even find me here?"
"You post your coffee orders on Instagram like they're a personality trait."
I flushed. "Stalker."
"Persistent," he corrected, then nodded at my notebook. "What were you writing?"
"Nothing."
"Didn't look like nothing."
"It's personal."
"So was what I told you at the dance," he said, voice quieter.
Silence stretched between us.
I stared down at my cup. "You hurt me."
"I know."
"You walked away."
"I didn't know what else to do."
"You could'vestayed , Ace."
He rubbed a hand across his face. "I'm not good at this. Being… known."
"Then why come here?"
"Because I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said. "Because I keep hearing your voice when everything else is loud. Because even when I try to go back to who I was before… you're the thing I miss."
My breath caught.
"I'm a mess, Hope," he whispered. "I'm not the guy you deserve."
"I don't want a perfect guy."
"Yeah? Then what do you want?"
I met his eyes. "Someone who stays."
His lips parted like he wanted to respond, but didn't know how.
So I changed the subject.
"What happened after the dance? You looked like you saw a ghost."
He hesitated, then said, "My brother… he wrote me. From prison."
"What did he say?"
"That he forgives me."
My heart tightened.
"I don't even know how to process that," he said. "I hated him. For what he did. For leaving me with everything to clean up. And now he wants to pretend like we're good."
"You're allowed to feel both things," I said gently. "Love and anger. They're messy. But they can exist together."
He stared at me like no one had ever told him that before.
Then he leaned in. Closer. Too close.
"I don't know how you do that," he said softly.
"Do what?"
"Make me want to be better."
And just like that, the moment hung between us—fragile and dangerous.
His hand brushed mine across the table.
Every part of me screamed no. Not here. Not now. Too soon.
But my heart?
It leaned in.
And before I could think too hard—
He kissed me.
Soft.
Hesitant.
Like he thought I might pull away.
I didn't.
I let him.
And for a second, everything else melted. The hurt. The rumors. The past.
It was just him. And me. And the feeling that maybe… maybe … we could rewrite both of our stories.
He pulled back first, forehead against mine, breath shaky.
"I shouldn't have done that," he whispered.
"But I'm glad you did," I whispered back.
---
That night, I sat on my bed, fingers still tingling from where he'd touched me.
We were messy. Complicated.
And maybe completely wrong for each other.
But in that one kiss?
We made sense.
---