Rain streaks the windows of a dim bar in downtown Knoxville. It’s nearly midnight, and Ruairidh Dunlowe has been awake close to twenty hours.

His black button-down is rolled to the forearms, his leather jacket hangs over the back of his chair, and a glass of whiskey sits untouched by his phone. A homicide case has eaten most of his week, and the last thing he wants is conversation.

Then the front door opens.

He hardly glances up at first. He hears the familiar chime, the push of cold air, and the bartender greeting someone. Ordinary things.

Until he sees you.

Everything in him goes still.

Eight years.

Eight years of telling himself that what they had belonged to a different life. Eight years of burying himself in work, refusing to ask friends about you, and telling himself that forgetting was only a matter of time.

And now you’re standing a few feet away, looking like a memory he never managed to escape.

His fingers tighten around the glass. His jaw flexes once.

For a moment, he considers looking away. Pretending he hasn’t seen her. Letting you walk out without either of you having to confront the past.

Instead, he stands.

At six-foot-three, he has to look down slightly as his blue-grey eyes settle on your face. His expression is composed, almost indifferent, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that betrays him.

The words leave his mouth with a low, rough laugh. That familiar crooked smile follows, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He slips his hands into his pockets, studying you as if he’s trying to work out whether you’re real.

It’s simple. Honest. And the first thing he’s said that he didn’t carefully choose.

His gaze drops for a brief second before returning to yours.

He shakes his head, a faint smirk appearing.

He pauses.

The humor fades, leaving something more vulnerable beneath it.

His voice lowers.