I smirked, straightening up. "Mark the date. Frame it."

Luke snorted and stepped up to the table. "Don't get cocky. You always peak early."

"That's rich coming from someone who used to miss the easiest shots just to annoy me."

"I did not miss on purpose."

"You absolutely did," I said, circling the table as he lined up. "You'd sigh dramatically, look at me, then somehow hit the cushion instead of the ball."

He took the shot. Missed by a hair.

I gasped. "Oh my God. Muscle memory."

"Shut up," he muttered, chalking the cue again. "I'm rusty."

I leaned on the table, watching him. "So. Hypothetically."

He glanced at me. "I don't like where this is going."

"Hypothetically," I repeated, "what if Maya and Josh—"

"No."

I laughed. "I didn't even finish."

"I don't need you to," he said flatly. "That's ridiculous."

"Right?" I said quickly. "Completely dumb."

"Unthinkable."

"Laughable."

We both paused.

Luke cleared his throat. Took another shot. This time it sank cleanly.

"...But," he added casually, "if it were true, that would explain the emotional apocalypse."

I burst out laughing. "No, stop. That's too stupid."

"Agreed," he said immediately. "Absolutely not."

We stood there for a second, the thought hovering uncomfortably between us, then collectively shoved it off a cliff.

"Nope," I said, shaking my head. "They'd combust."

"They already did," Luke pointed out.

"Different combustion," I replied. "That would be... romantic combustion. This was more like—mutual emotional arson."

He smiled despite himself. "Fair."

I took my turn again, bending over the table. "And besides, Maya would never go for Josh."

Luke raised an eyebrow. "You're saying that like Josh wouldn't."

I straightened slowly. "...Okay, rude."

He laughed. "Just saying. He's loud, annoying, emotionally unavailable—"

"That's not selling it."

"—and somehow deeply loyal."

I groaned. "Stop. I hate that you're making it sound plausible."

"Too late," he said. "Your turn."

I lined up another shot, tongue between my teeth in concentration. "You know what this feels like?"

He watched me. "Trouble?"

"High school," I said. "Sneaking out during parties. Playing snooker like it mattered more than life."

"You did treat it like life or death," he said. "You once refused to talk to me for a week."

"You scratched on the eight ball."

"It was an accident!"

"It was betrayal."

He laughed, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"And yet," I said lightly, sinking another ball, "you kept playing with me."

"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "I did."

There was a beat. Not awkward—just... there.

Then I ruined it. "Still my game."

Luke scoffed. "Barely."

He stepped closer to take his shot, shoulder brushing mine as he leaned over the table. Too close. Familiar close. The kind that made my brain short-circuit for half a second.

He sank the ball and straightened, smug. "Tie."

I narrowed my eyes. "Rematch."

"You bet," he said.

I reached the sideboard to grab the chalk again—and that's when I saw it.

A dusty bottle of red wine, half-hidden behind a row of mismatched tumblers, like it had been waiting there specifically to cause trouble.

"Oh," I said, already reaching for it.

"No," Luke said immediately.

I froze mid-air. "What?"

"No," he repeated, firmer. "Put it back."

I turned slowly, bottle in hand. "You don't get to say 'no' like that."

"Yes, I do," he said, stepping closer. "You're already halfway to tipsy, and this—" he pointed at the bottle "—is a terrible idea."

I raised an eyebrow totally sarcastic. "You sound fun."

"I sound responsible."

"That's worse."

I ignored him, grabbed two glasses from the shelf—thick, old-fashioned ones, like something out of a saloon—and set them on the table.

"Maddison," he warned.

"Luke," I mocked, uncorking the bottle. "Relax. It's wine. Not a personality flaw."

I poured. Generously.

He watched the liquid rise in the glass like it was a personal betrayal. "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Push buttons just to see if I'll react."

I slid a glass toward him. "Well? Are you going to combust or drink?"

He stared at it. Then at me.

Then, with a resigned sigh, he took it. "You're impossible."

"You already said that," I replied sweetly. "I think"

We clinked glasses—not in a celebratory way, more like a challenge—and drank.

The wine was strong. Too strong. Perfect.

"Round two," I said, grabbing my cue. "Loser admits they're wrong."

"About what?"

"Everything," I shot back.

He smirked. "Confident."

I took the break shot. Balls scattered across the table, one sinking cleanly.

Luke whistled. "Show-off."

"Jealous."

He leaned over the table, lining up his shot. "You only play this well when you're trying to prove a point."

"And you only play badly when you're emotionally compromised."

He paused. Looked at me. "That's not a thing."

"Oh, it absolutely is."

He took the shot—missed.

I laughed, loud and unfiltered. "See? Combusting."

"Shut up," he muttered, rubbing his face. "The lighting's weird."

"The lighting?" I echoed. "That's your excuse?"

"Yes."

I took another sip of wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. "You know what your problem is?"

He straightened. "I'm begging you not to say this."

"You pretend you're calm," I continued, circling the table, "but really you're just repressing everything until it explodes in very inconvenient moments."

He laughed sharply. "And you—" he pointed at me with the cue "—say everything all the time, whether anyone's ready for it or not."

"That's called honesty."

"That's called chaos."

I leaned in closer. "You love chaos."

He scoffed. "I hate you."

"Liar."

He stepped closer too now, the space between us shrinking as the air seemed to crackle with wine and memories and things unsaid.

"You do this on purpose," he said quietly. "You poke and poke until I snap."

I tilted my head. "And you pretend you don't like it."

His jaw tightened. "I don't. Take your shot."

I did. Sank another ball.

I grinned. "Your turn."

He downed the rest of his wine in one go. "You're playing dirty."

"You're still playing."

We stood there, mid-game, mid-argument, mid-something else entirely—teasing each other like we always had, like the years hadn't happened, like we hadn't grown up and learned better and still somehow chosen this.

And I realized, distantly, that neither of us was trying to win.

We were just trying to see who would break first.

Round three started without anyone officially calling it round three.

Luke broke this time. Harder than necessary. The balls scattered like they'd been insulted personally.

"Overcompensating," I said lightly, chalking my cue.

He didn't look up. "Still talking."

I leaned over the table, deliberately slow, lining up my shot while very aware of where he was standing. The ball dropped cleanly.

"One point," I said. "For emotional stability."

He snorted. "You wouldn't recognize emotional stability if it filed a restraining order."

"Ouch." I straightened. "You're getting warmer."

He circled the table, cue resting on his shoulder. "Careful, Maddison. You poke long enough, you'll hit something you don't want answers to."

I smiled. "Is that a threat or an invitation?"

"Neither," he said flatly. "A warning."

I took a sip of wine. "So. Victoria."

There it was. The word.

He stopped walking.

Just for a second. Barely noticeable. But I noticed.

"Oh come on," I added, feigning boredom. "You can't tell me you thought I'd just drop that. You show up with that history, that timing, and expect me to ignore it?"

He exhaled slowly. "I thought you said you didn't care."

"Oh did I? I am just a way too curious person."

"Carrful, it might look like you are jealous."

"Please, I hate you enough to not be jealous," I corrected.

He glanced at me, sharp. "You sure about that?"

I leaned my hip against the table. "Completely."

"Then why are you pushing?"

"Because you never talk," I shot back. "And because it drives me insane."

Silence stretched. The kind that pressed against your ears.

"I mean you were the one saying that 'Me and Victoria please that will never happen. I don't like her like that."

He lined up his shot, sank a ball, then another. Too smooth. Too controlled. Probably ignoring my words:

"You really want to know?" he asked finally.

I lifted my chin. "I wouldn't have brought her up if I didn't."

He nodded once. "Fine. We met a few years ago. After college I had my first projects and it was for her, to make a complex near her parents house. She recognized me first."

"Of course she did," I muttered.

He ignored that. "She was... easy. Familiar. She knew the version of me that existed after you— after high school."

That landed heavier than I expected.

I masked it with a scoff. "Wow. Romantic."

He looked at me then. Really looked. "It wasn't."

"For how long."

"Long enough" he replied making me rolls my eyes.

"What does that mean?" I asked

"Six months." He finally said.

I hesitated, cue hovering mid-air. "Six months is half a year, that's a lot for Victoria. So why six months?"

"Because I thought that was what normal looked like," he said. "Because everyone else seemed to move on. Date. Build things. Feel things in the right order."

I swallowed. Took my shot. Missed.

He noticed.

"Careful," he said softly. "You're losing your edge."

"Shut up," I muttered. "So what—she just fit into the Luke-shaped box you built?"

"Yes," he said. Then corrected himself. "No. I tried to make her fit."

"And?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Turns out forcing something doesn't make it real."

I laughed quietly. "Look at you. So wise."

He smirked. "You're deflecting."

"Am I?" I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "You dated her because she was easy."

His jaw tightened. "That's not—"

"Because she didn't ask questions," I continued. "Didn't push. Didn't demand you talk."

"That's not—."

"What your box looks like? I am pretty sure it is."

He set his cue down a little too hard. "You don't get to analyze my relationships when you ran halfway across the states and dated Dylan for what—convenience?"

There it was. His move.

I laughed, sharp. "Oh, so we're doing that now?"

"You started it," he said.

"Dylan and I were nothing like you and Victoria," I shot back. "It was more serious."

"So serious you broke things off after 8 years and he started to date a friend after a month of breaking up with you?" he snapped.

We stood there, close again, tension humming like an exposed wire.

The words hit like a cue ball straight to the ribs.

I stilled.

Really stilled.

My grip tightened around the cue, knuckles whitening, but I didn't look away from him.

"That's low," I said quietly.

He didn't flinch. "True, though."

I let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh than it should have. "You don't get to rewrite my relationship because it fits your argument."

"I'm not rewriting it," Luke shot back. "I'm saying what it looked like from the outside."

"And what did it look like?" I asked. "Go on. I'm dying to know."

He hesitated—just enough to make it worse.

"It looked like you chose someone safe," he said. "Someone who didn't challenge you. Someone who couldn't hurt you the way—" He stopped himself.

"The way you could?" I finished for him.

His jaw flexed. "The way you let things run too long even when you know they're broken."

That one found its mark.

I stepped back, swallowing hard. "You think I stayed because it was easy?"

"I think you stayed because leaving would've meant admitting it wasn't what you wanted," he said. "Just like I did."

Silence dropped between us again, thick and heavy.

I lined up another shot just to give my hands something to do. Missed again. Badly.

"Fantastic," I muttered. "I'm really nailing this tonight."

"You're rattled," he said.

"No," I snapped. "I'm pissed."

"Same thing."

I turned on him. "You don't get to judge me for Dylan when you literally admitted Victoria was a placeholder."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to," I shot back. "You dated her because she didn't matter enough to hurt you."

His eyes darkened. "And you stayed with Dylan because he mattered enough to hide behind."

That did it.

I slammed the cue down on the table. The sound echoed.

"You think I didn't love him?" I asked, voice sharp. "You think eight years is convenience?"

"I think," Luke said, stepping closer, voice lower now, "that you loved the version of yourself you were with him. Just like Victoria loved the version of me that wasn't... this."

"This?" I scoffed. "You mean honest?"

"Unsettled," he corrected. "Exposed."

I stared at him, chest rising too fast. "You don't know what Dylan and I were."

"I know he moved on in a month," Luke said. "And you will still be unpacking the same boxes two years later."

I laughed, brittle. "You really came prepared for this fight, huh?"

"I didn't plan it," he said. "But I'm done pretending you were the only one who made compromises."

I picked up my glass, drained it, then set it down harder than necessary. "Fine. You want honesty?"

He nodded once. "Always."

"I stayed with Dylan because he felt like stability after chaos," I said. "Because I was tired of unfinished conversations and emotional chess games."

His expression tightened.

"And you know what?" I continued. "It worked. Until it didn't."

I stepped closer now, close enough that the tension felt physical. "But don't act like you're above that. You built your whole damn life around not feeling too much."

"That's rich coming from you," he said. "You feel everything and then pretend you don't."

We stood there, inches apart, neither willing to back down.

"So what are we doing, Luke?" I asked quietly. "Reliving old mistakes? Or pretending we're not still playing the same game?"

His voice dropped. "You're the one who brought Victoria into this."

"And you brought Dylan," I shot back. "Guess we're even."

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "This is exactly why I didn't want to talk."

I laughed, bitter. "And this is exactly why you should."

Another beat. Another silence.

Then, softer, almost against his will, he said,
"I didn't date her because she was easy. I dated her because she wasn't you."

That one didn't hurt.

It shattered.

I felt it in my chest, sharp and sudden, like a glass breaking inside me.

"Oh," I said, barely audible.

He looked like he regretted saying it the second it left his mouth.

The words rang between us, loud and fragile at the same time.

I let out a breath that shook despite myself. "That's not the compliment you think it is."

"I'm not trying to compliment you," he said, just as quiet. "I'm telling you the truth."

"The truth?" I scoffed. "You think that makes it better?"

"You asked," he shot back. "You always ask. You just don't like the answers."

I shook my head, laughing under my breath. "No, Luke. I don't like you deciding what I can handle."

He stepped closer without even meaning to, the space between us gone so suddenly it felt like gravity had shifted.

"You handle everything," he said. "That's the problem. You carry it, you joke about it, you survive it—and then you act surprised when it explodes."

"And you?" I snapped. "You lock it away. You label it. You pretend it's logic instead of fear."

His jaw clenched. "Careful."

"Why?" I challenged. "Afraid I'll say something true?"

"I'm afraid you'll say something you don't mean," he replied. "And then pretend you never said it."

That stung because it was familiar.

I lifted my chin anyway. "You don't get to psychoanalyze me like I'm one of your freaking houses."

"And you don't get to dissect my life like it belongs to you," he said back.

We were too close now. I could feel his breath, warm and uneven, see the tightness around his eyes—the cracks he hated showing.

We stood there, breathless, the tension stretched so tight it felt like it might snap.

"God I just... hate you," I said suddenly, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He didn't flinch.

"Great," he replied just as fast. "Because I hate you too."

The lie sat ugly between us. Heavy. Obvious.

We both knew it.

Neither of us moved. Neither of us backed away.

And then—

"Oh, you guys playing?" Josh's voice cut through the room, cheerful and completely oblivious. "Can I join? I need to unwind my mind."

The moment shattered.

I stepped back like I'd been burned, grabbing my jacket. "I'm leaving."

Luke straightened at the same time. "Yeah. Me too."

Josh blinked, looking between us. "Uh... did I miss something?"

"No," I said quickly.

I didn't look at him as I walked past. Didn't trust myself to.

Behind me, I heard Josh mumble something confused, heard Luke's footsteps head the opposite direction.

And just like that, the game—unfinished, unresolved—was abandoned again.

Some things, it seemed, never really ended.

They just waited.