I'm still smiling when I drop my bag onto the bed.

Not a soft smile. A satisfied one.

I kick off my shoes, unzip the bag, and start unloading everything in the messiest way possible—clothes tossed, toiletries rolling, chargers tangling themselves like they're alive. I laugh under my breath, replaying Victoria's face, the way her voice cracked, the way she completely lost control.

Petty? Yes.
Cathartic? Absolutely.

I'm mid-laugh when someone knocks.

I don't even check who it is.

I swing the door open, still smiling—and then a tall figure steps straight into my space, carrying that familiar scent of wood and cedar. Warm. Sharp. Intimately annoying.

Luke.

He closes the door behind him.

And then he explodes.

"Are you out of your mind?" he snaps, pacing once before spinning back toward me. "No—let me rephrase that. Are you crazy?"

I blink at him, my smile fading into something slower, sharper.
"Is that a question," I ask, "or an affirmation?"

He stops. Looks straight at me.
"I think it's both."

"Great," I say lightly. "Then if that's all, you can leave—and maybe send my condolences to Victoria. She looked really bad out there."

That's when he really loses it.

"Is this what you wanted?" he fires back. "Is this your plan? To push her until she breaks? She was shaking, Maddie. Crying. Completely disturbed."

I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts.
"Oh my God. The horror. She was shaking? Maybe you should get her some sugar. Or a blanket. Or, I don't know—attention?"

He runs a hand through his hair, furious.
"You can't just leave her like that."

I laugh—short, incredulous.
"Wow. This is new. You defending your ex-girlfriend? I didn't know that was part of your personality. Doesn't really suit you."

"You think this is funny?" he snaps.

"No," I say calmly. "I think you are funny. Coming in here to lecture me when you weren't even there."

"She lost it because of you."

I tilt my head.
"Are you serious right now?"

"She didn't just lose it," he insists. "You provoked her."

"Oh, I provoked her," I repeat. "By existing? By dating you? By breathing?"

"You say things," he shoots back. "You always do. Especially to Victoria."

I let out a slow, humorless laugh.
"Wow. Personal experience?"

"Yes," he says sharply. "Personal experience."

"Fantastic," I reply, clapping once. "So we're blaming me. Again. Love that for us. Truly."

He steps closer.

Too close.

"Why can't you take anything seriously for once?" he demands. "Just once in your life?"

My smile disappears.

"I am taking this seriously," I say quietly. "This conversation is exactly as serious as it deserves to be. Because it's ridiculous. Victoria started screaming about how you love her, how I'm fake, how this is all a lie—and somehow I'm the villain?"

"She's not well right now."

"And whose problem is that?" I fire back. "Yours? Because you sure made it mine."

He's right in front of me now. His chest rising fast. Jaw clenched.

"You didn't have to push her."

"I didn't push her," I snap. "I stood there. Calm. Quiet. And she lost her mind. That's not on me."

He shakes his head.
"You always do this. You poke and smile and pretend you're innocent."

"And you always do this," I shoot back. "Defend everyone else before you even ask what happened."

Silence slams between us.

Thick. Electric.

We're breathing hard now, standing so close I can feel the heat coming off him. My chest tightens—not fear, not attraction—something messier.

"Go take care of her," I say finally, voice edged with sarcasm. "Be the hero. Fake boyfriend, real knight."

His eyes flash.
"That's not fair."

I laugh again, sharp and bitter.
"Oh, now fairness matters?"

We stare at each other, anger crackling in the air like a live wire.

Same argument. Same rhythm. Same collision.

Ten years later—and somehow, we still know exactly how to hurt each other.

He exhales sharply, the sound rough, tired.
"I don't know if I can carry this," he says. "If you're like this."

I let out a hollow laugh.
"Oh, I am like this," I shoot back. "I'm so sorry I'm not the perfect, calm, emotionally digestible person you'd prefer. Maybe I should be more like Victoria, right? Cry over everything I don't have and everything I'll never have. Maybe then you'd be able to deal with me."

"That's not funny," he snaps. "Stop joking."

"Ah," I say, nodding slowly. "There it is. The classic diagnosis. Humor equals avoidance. Got it."

"I'm serious, Maddie. This is your coping mechanism. You deflect everything."

"And you dismiss everything," I fire back. "You just push it aside the second it doesn't fit your version of the story. You only know how to see things your way. Everyone else is wrong, dramatic, exaggerated—"

"You don't know me," he cuts in.

I step closer without meaning to. We're inches apart now, the air thick between us.
"Oh, Luke," I say quietly, looking straight into his eyes. "We both know that's a lie. And honestly? I wish it wasn't. I wish I didn't know you at all."

The words land heavier than I expect.

For a second, neither of us moves. We just breathe. My chest tight. His jaw flexes.

Then he huffs out a small, humorless laugh. Almost a smile.
"Well," he says softly, "that's great. Because I feel the exact same way. Even after ten years."

I roll my eyes, stepping back.
"Can you stop saying that? If you keep repeating 'ten years' I might actually start believing it."

He rubs his face with both hands, dragging them down like he's trying to wipe the frustration away. I watch him, exhausted, done.

"You know," I mutter, "out of everyone in the world, I can't believe Maya chose you for this. She couldn't have picked anyone worse."

He looks up.
"Why? Thinking about how bad it could've been?"

"Oh, I thought about it immediately," I say. "I hoped you wouldn't show up. I hoped your flight would get canceled, your luggage lost, that Henry wouldn't talk to you, that Sophia would forget to invite you—something. Anything."

I gesture vaguely around the room.
"But here you are. And the story just had to go on."

"That's not my fault," he says sharply.

"See?" I point at him. "That's exactly what you do. I'm not blaming you, and somehow you still hear blame. I know you're not the problem here."

I swallow, my voice lowering despite myself.
"I know this was my mess. I know I couldn't stand seeing Dylan with her. I know I didn't tell the truth. I know Maya made the worst possible choice. And believe me—out of everyone—I did not want it to be you."

I shake my head, frustrated, tired.
"I don't know why she said your name. Drunk logic. Subconscious cruelty. A joke from God. I don't know. But I didn't want this. Not you. Not this situation."

He meets my gaze, eyes dark.
"Good," he says. "Because I don't want it either. I didn't fly across the world to be trapped in a room arguing with you like we always do."

His voice hardens.
"Yet somehow, here I am. You keep showing up in my life when I clearly don't want you to."

That one stings more than I expect.

I turn away, pacing a few steps, then laugh—quiet, bitter.
"Do you really think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to see you? The last thing I wanted this weekend was your face."

I stop, turning back to him.
"But here I am. Five feet away from it."

I cross my arms, exhausted.
"So yeah. If your day's going badly—trust me. Mine's worse."

He exhales, long and heavy, like he's finally letting the fight drain out of his body.

"Okay," he says, calmer now, tired more than angry. "Fine. Let's just take a deep breath, calm down, and get through this stupid weekend."

I nod immediately. Too quickly.
"Fine. I can't wait for it to be Sunday already."

He looks at me for a second, really looks at me, then straightens his shoulders like he's putting armor back on.
"Let's just finish this in the most polite way possible."

I snort before I can stop myself.
"Well, unfortunately, I don't think I can promise that."

His jaw tightens, but instead of snapping back, he steps closer. Too close. I can feel his breath now, steady, controlled, deliberate.

"Let's just end this," he says quietly. "And then we won't ever have to see each other again."

Something in my chest twists, sharp and fast, but I nod anyway.
"Perfect," I say. "That sounds great to me."

He nods once.
"Yeah. Good."

And then he turns around, walks out, and closes the door behind him.

The sound is soft. Polite. Final.

I stand there for a second too long, staring at the door like it might reopen if I just wait. It doesn't.

Everything hits at once—rage, sorrow, frustration, something dangerously close to grief. My throat tightens and my chest feels too small to hold all of it. I hate that familiar burn behind my eyes. I hate that I recognize it.

I rush to the bathroom before I can think better of it.

The mirror greets me far too honestly. Red cheeks. Tired eyes. A girl who looks like she's about to break and refuses to admit it.

I point at my reflection.
"Don't you dare cry," I tell myself, my voice low and firm. "Don't you even think about it."

I inhale. Exhale.
"You can do this. You've done worse. You always do."

I straighten my shoulders, forcing my spine to remember how to stand tall.
"Just do what you always do," I whisper. "Ignore it. Push it down. Move on."

My reflection doesn't look convinced.

Neither am I.

But I nod anyway, because believing isn't required—surviving is.

And for now, that has to be enough.