I stare at his chest, now sparkling with champagne, my brain short-circuiting completely.

Ten years should have softened this.

It hasn't.

Luke Parker looks nothing like the boy I remember—and exactly like him at the same time.

His hair is still that impossible color, the one no one ever managed to name properly. Not quite brown. Not quite blonde. The kind that turns lighter in the summer, almost golden if the sun hits it right, and deepens into something darker in winter. I remember noticing it back then. I notice it now. It's brushed back neatly, but not too neatly—intentional mess, the kind that takes effort while pretending it didn't.

His face is sharper. Older. The boyish softness is gone, replaced by something calmer, steadier. There's a hint of a beard shadow along his jaw, like he shaved late last night or early this morning. Enough to notice. Enough to distract.

He's taller than I remember. Or maybe I'm just standing closer than I ever meant to.

His shirt—simple, plain, slightly untucked—clings to his arms in a way that feels unfair. Italy suits him. Casual. Effortless. Like he belongs exactly where he is.

And then there's the watch.

Silver. Clean. Resting against his wrist, catching the light just enough to draw my attention to the veins on his hands.

I realize I'm staring.

I blink.

"—I mean, I wasn't—" I start, words tumbling over each other. "I was just walking and she had the tray and there was champagne and I didn't mean to—"

I stop.
Take a breath.
Fail immediately.

"I'm rambling," I add.

"Yes," Luke says calmly. "You are."

I freeze.

"Oh," I say. "Right. Sorry."

He turns fully toward me then, disengaging from whoever he was talking to before. For the first time since I crashed into him, I have his full attention, and it feels... heavier than I expected.

"You might want to change," I blurt out, gesturing vaguely at his shirt. "I mean—if you want. We can get you something. Or dry cleaning. Or—"

He looks down at himself, then back at me, unimpressed but amused. "Okay."

"I can talk to Henry," I rush on. "Since it was my fault. Like—my redemption arc."

That earns me a small, knowing smirk.

"I don't think you were ever big on redemption," he says.

Something old stirs in my chest. Something familiar. Something sharp.

"Well," I say carefully, "people change."

He studies me for a second longer than necessary. "After ten years," he says, "they might. But not completely."

Before I can respond—before I can decide whether that was an accusation or an observation—Sophia appears at my side, eyes widening as she takes in Luke's soaked shirt.

"Oh my God," she says. "Luke, I am so sorry."

Henry steps in beside her, already assessing the situation like a problem he can fix. "Come on," he says easily. "We'll get you another shirt. I've got one that should fit."

Luke nods, still looking at me, just briefly. "Lead the way."

Sophia gently steers him toward the villa, Henry following, already talking about towels and spare clothes.

And somehow—without planning it, without thinking—I go with them.

Walking beside Luke Parker.

Again.

After ten years.

Into the villa.

Into trouble.

This is a mess.

A monumental, irreversible, champagne-soaked mess.

By the time we reach the villa corridors, I'm operating on muscle memory and alcohol fumes alone. Every few steps, I grab another glass from a passing tray—champagne, mimosa, something herbal and aggressively Italian—and down it like I'm hydrating for a marathon I did not sign up for.

Luke stops Henry and Sophia just inside the hallway.

"Guys, it's really okay," he says, easy as ever. "I can change in my room. I brought extra shirts."

Sophia blinks. Henry nods too fast.

"Yeah—yeah, of course," Henry says. "Totally."

Luke smiles. "And, uh—thank you. Really. For inviting me. I'm happy for you two."

Sophia and Henry both freeze for half a second, like mannequins rebooting.

"Thank you," Sophia says eventually. "We're—yes. Thank you."

Luke gives a small nod and walks off down the hall.

Just like that.

Gone.

Sophia turns to me slowly. "Maddie."

I raise my glass. "Yes."

"You should go."

"I don't really want to."

Henry steps in. "You need to. If you don't explain this now, everyone will assume you're lying."

"I'm not lying," I say weakly. "Maya is."

Sophia sighs. "At this point, it doesn't matter. Your name is attached to his. Go."

They physically steer me down the corridor, past stone walls and soft lighting and doors that look far too elegant for the chaos unfolding inside my skull. At some point they let go, giving me encouraging hand gestures like I'm being sent into battle.

My body keeps moving.

My mind does not.

I turn a corner—and stop.

Luke is standing in the middle of the hallway.

And he's not alone.

Victoria.

Of course it's Victoria.

Ten years haven't changed her much. Same sharp posture. Same calculating eyes. Same way of standing just a little too close to him. Back in high school, she'd copied my clothes, my expressions, even the way I laughed when Luke said something funny. Everyone pretended not to notice.

I noticed.

She's looking at him now the same way she always did—like he's something she deserved but never got.

And then she sees me.

Her lips curl into a slow, satisfied smirk.

"Oh," she says. "There she is. The talk of the moment."

Luke glances between us, confused.

"I never thought this would actually happen," Victoria continues, eyes flicking pointedly between me and him.

"What would happen?" Luke asks.

"Oh please, Luke," she says lightly. "Don't play dumb. I never thought you'd actually end up with her. After everything."

My stomach twists.

"Victoria," Luke says carefully, "I don't think I understand—"

"Are you trying to make me jealous?" she presses. "You always did enjoy that."

He frowns. "What are you talking about?"

She laughs. "Everyone knows you two are dating. I'm just wondering if she knows you're doing this because of me."

Silence.

My cue.

I step forward. "Well, this weekend is already a circus," I say dryly. "So why not?"

Victoria turns to me, delighted. "Oh, this is going to be fun, isn't it, Maddie?"

"I'd keep expectations low," I reply. "I plan on being heavily intoxicated."

She smiles wider, then turns back to Luke, trailing her fingers—deliberately—across his chest before stepping away.

"See you around, honey."

She leaves.

The hallway feels quieter.

He looks at me. Really looks at me.

"What," he says slowly, "is happening?"

I let out a short laugh. "Funny you should ask."

"People think we're dating," he continues. "Victoria just accused me of doing it to make her jealous. And unless I missed something in the last ten years, we haven't spoken since high school."

"Correct."

"So?"

I nod. "We're not dating."

He exhales. "Good."

"But," I add quickly, "we kind of are."

He stares.

I gesture down the hall. "Your room?"

He holds up the key card, still silent.

I check the door number. "Perfect."

And before my courage evaporates completely, I push him inside.

Because this moment—this lie, this mess, this impossible situation—

has officially begun.