Reunited Old Flame First Night

Marcus hadn’t set foot in Millbrook in nearly a decade, yet the second he walked into the banquet room of the old Lakeside Inn the air tasted exactly the same—cheap red wine, too much cologne, and the ghost of every Friday-night football game he’d ever lost. He was twenty-eight now, a software engineer with a tidy apartment three states away and a résumé that looked good on LinkedIn, but the second his best friend Jake clapped him on the back and pointed toward the far end of the rehearsal-dinner table, Marcus felt eighteen again.

Lena stood there in a deep green dress that clung to hips he used to cup through denim in his parents’ unfinished basement. Twenty-seven, graphic designer, single—Jake had fed him the intel like breadcrumbs—and still the girl who’d once bitten his lower lip hard enough to draw a tiny bead of blood the night before he left for college. Their eyes locked. The room noise dropped to a dull throb.

She came to him first, weaving between cousins and bridesmaids, champagne flute loose in her fingers. Up close he saw the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the confident set of her shoulders. Not the shy girl who used to blush when he unhooked her bra. Something hotter. Hungrier.

“Marcus Hale,” she said, voice low enough that only he could hear. “You still look like trouble.”

“You still look like the reason I never learned to code properly freshman year.” He took the glass she offered from a passing tray. Their fingers brushed. Static. “Jake said you’re local again.”

“Studio downtown. Rent’s a crime, but the light’s perfect.” She sipped, watching him over the rim. “You ever…?” She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

He shook his head once. “Never. Not all the way. Came close a couple times. Always felt like I was waiting for a ghost.”