Chapter Text
Jesse answered your call without a second thought.
He hadn’t changed.
At first, all he could hear was the subtle click of the connected line. Everything he rehearsed had gone. The two of you sat there with your tongues tied, balancing on opposite ends of quiet. You both waited for the other to be brave, to take the first unsteady step.
You swallowed.
“…Jesse?”
Your tone was soft and unsure. He held your voice in his hand, tight, as if it might slip away. All he could think to say was;
“Hi…”
You didn’t really know what was appropriate to say, or what was expected. Jesse noticed your pause and only then did it truly sink in. He was on the phone with you. Not remembering you, not imagining you, you were tight there on the other line.
“Oh shit—sorry—uhm, God,”
The stuttered panic in his voice loosened something in you. You felt your shoulders drop a little. He really hadn’t changed. Still incapable of playing anything cool. When his name lit up your phone, you braced for some version of him you wouldn’t recognize. Instead, this was almost disarmingly familiar.
“It’s fine,” your voice was lighter when you spoke this time. “I was just… returning your call.”
You defaulted to acting almost overly formal, as if the two of you had never spoken before. For reasons Jesse didn’t want to acknowledge, that stung a little.
“Yeah, thank you.” He said absently, his voice trailing. Maybe he was waiting for you to say something more. You didn’t.
Your conversation was punctuated with small, wordless moments—stumbles, where neither of you really knew how to continue, where to place your feet next. Every new line felt like leaning too far forward, catching yourselves, recalibrating.
Eventually, Jesse took a step forward.
“So, I was like, uhm, I guess just wondering like, what you’ve been up to?”
You frowned, not unkindly. “Jesse, are you being serious, what’s going on?”
There was a rustle on his end, like he was pacing or dragging a hand over his face. “Okay. Sorry. I just… this is…” He trailed off, searching for footing that wasn’t there.
“This is dumb, and you don’t have to say yes— but is there like any way I could maybe crash at your place?”
You blinked. That was not on the list of possibilities. Not in a million years. Not in two.
“I mean—forget it, I—”
“No.” You cut in quickly. “Sure.”
—
You both fumbled through the logistics—cross streets, landmarks, an explanation of where he was standing. When the call ended, Jesse lowered the phone and just stared at the screen for a second. He replayed the entire conversation at double speed—your hesitations, your tone softening, the way you said sure before he could take it back. He didn’t know what that meant for the two of you. He wasn’t sure he should even think about it.
When your car pulled up, headlights sweeping across the sidewalk, Jesse almost didn’t move. Out of nowhere a stray memory from chemistry class floated to the front of his mind. He couldn’t remember the exact words, just the gist of it: how sometimes it only took something as small as an atom to change everything. A shift in temperature. A spark you barely notice. One otherwise unremarkable variable could suddenly have the whole reaction shoot off in a direction you couldn’t take back.
He hadn’t paid much attention. Back then, it had sounded like the kind of nerdy bullshit he figured he’d never use outside that classroom.
So why now? Sitting on the curb as the sky deepened into blue-black, his heart doing something strange in his throat—why was that the memory his brain dragged up?
He wondered if calling you had been that spark.
If you picking up was the beginning of something irreversible.
He wondered if he even really wanted to know where it would lead.
A car door opened.
You stepped out just far enough for him to see you over the roof.
For a beat, something hollowed in him.
He swallowed hard, shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and walked toward you.
“Hey,” you said quietly.
“Hey.” He said quieter. When he opened the passenger door, he hesitated—hovering there, he wasn’t really sure how to enter your space again. But when you closed the driver side door, he had no choice but to join you. He slid inside, shutting the door with more care than necessary. The car smelled new, expensive. Not a stray hair or crumb anywhere. The leather seat creaked under him. Like the passenger side wasn’t used to seating someone. It felt like he’d stepped into the life you’d built without him—clean lines, quiet order, nothing out of place.
“How’ve you been?” he asked, the words almost as stiff as the leather beneath him. He regretted them instantly. He looked everywhere except at you—out the window, at his hands, at the dash, back to his hands. Now that he was actually beside you, sealed into this small, quiet space, he began to wish you were still just a name on his screen
“Good,” you lied simply.
For a moment, you wondered if he could tell. If he could hear it the way he used to, the way your voice dipped just enough to betray you.
Jesse could tell. But he didn’t pry.
“You?” you asked finally, because it felt polite.
Jesse let the question hang for a second. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Good felt unbelievable. Bad felt too honest. He shifted, fingers skimming a frayed thread on his cuff, something to tether him. When he finally dared to look over at you, something in him steadied.
You were different. And you were the same.
Your hands stayed perfectly at ten and two, fingers soft but controlled, knuckles catching the light. You sat straight-backed, almost rigid, like someone had put a ruler along your spine years ago and you never forgot how it felt. You wore your hair tied up, albeit haphazardly, it didn’t fall into your face like it used to. Even your glasses were new; the lenses caught reflections at an angle that managed to make your eyes look sharper, a bit older. As you passed under a streetlamp, the light sliced across your face, pulling the planes of your features forward—etching the curve of your cheekbone, the soft turn of your lips, things he remembered and the things he didn’t.
“I’ve… been around,” he said finally. It wasn’t an answer. But it was the truth in the only way he knew how to say it,
You almost exhaled a sound—a half-scoff, half-laugh—that used to rise so easily with him. Once, you might’ve called him out. Pushed for more. But now… now everything felt delicate. Too easily disturbed. So you let it go.
Silence settled between you again—not sharp, not cold—just dense. Heavy in the way only old familiarity could be. A silence that remembered things. A silence that waited. Outside, the road unwound in a blur of amber streetlights and empty intersections. You drove mostly in silence, letting the hum of the engine fill the places where words didn’t fit. Eventually, you turned onto your street. The houses looked the same—though in the dark, they seemed to loom a little taller, as if time had stretched them upward. The neighborhood was still yet restless in the way familiar places become when you’ve been gone too long. Sprinklers clicked in steady intervals, misting the scorched lawns. Nothing about this place had changed. Except you.
When you pulled into your old driveway, Jesse leaned forward slightly, taking it in. He hadn’t expected to be here again, not really. Some part of him assumed you’d have moved on from this house the moment you could. Then he noticed the quiet. The empty curb. No other cars in sight.
“No one home?” he asked, voice low. He wasn’t sure which possibility was worse—running into your parents after all these years, or knowing the two of you would be alone in this house again.
You shook your head. “No. Not right now.” In truth, your mother had gone to a hotel on the edge of town, close to the only hospital equipped to treat your father. It wasn’t worth explaining. Not tonight.
Jesse decided not to push it. The two of you stepped out of the car, the night air warm against your skin. As you walked toward the porch, the motion light sputtered to life—bright, then dim, then bright again.
Jesse’s eyes flicked up at the light. He remembered how, once, he’d learned the exact angle to skirt it, the small patch of shadow that let him slip in and out undetected if he placed his feet just so. Now it just blinked at him, exposing everything.
You unlocked the door, hesitated for half a breath, then pushed it open. “Come on,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.
“Come on in.”