Chapter 1 #2
I scanned for this perfect specimen, imagining him skinny, in a shirt with too many buttons, and blabbering about some medical journal no one cared about.
I was wrong.
Instead, he was at the makeshift DJ booth, laughing, spinning tracks, fingers tapping the rhythm like it belonged to him. Black flannel shirt draped off one massive shoulder, funky sunglasses on the slight curve of his Italian nose.
David was right. I liked Ben. Before I even spoke to him. And no, it wasn't just because he was six-foot-four and gorgeous. It was something... intangible.
When David introduced us, Ben slid the shades off, pinned me with those dark eyes and I thought oh-my-god, I understand black holes now—how fast they pull you in.
The room erupted with "Ain't Nobody" screaming from the speakers, the crowd bouncing like maniacs.
David disappeared somewhere in the chaos but Ben and I stayed put, just... watching each other.
"Have we met before?" he asked then, leaning in, and I realized how small with my five-foot-three I was in comparison to him.
I shook my head. "No. First time."
"But you seem familiar."
I shrugged, playful. "Maybe I have that kind of face?"
He shook his head slowly. "No. I've seen many faces. Yours is different. There's something different about you."
I gave him a shy look, unsure what he meant by that.
He threw a look over his shoulder, then back at me, one brow up. "David's your boyfriend?"
"Yeah."
"Is it serious?"
I snorted at his bluntness but he didn't flinch—just waited like I owed him an answer.
"Eeeh... I think so," I said and instantly felt like an ass. David and I were pretty serious, but in that moment, it kind of... didn't feel like it?
I know, I know. Still shitty.
Ben didn't say anything, just nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he caught me staring at those ridiculous shades on his head. "You like these?"
I snorted a laugh. "Just trying to figure out if that's your fashion statement or you lost a bet."
"Both," he said and flashed me that smirky-smile, and the song they called a banger? Yeah, it just turned into my personal soundtrack for falling in love.
That night, Ben and I ditched everyone and talked for hours, sitting on the counter beside a fridge cluttered with magnets and greasy takeout menus.
We circled favorite dishes, argued over who made better pasta, and the conversation skipped from one topic to another.
"Aliens?" He flipped the E.T. magnet in his palm.
"Love them, and they're real. Saw a UFO. Would give anything to be on their ship."
"They'd dissect you."
"So what?" I shrugged, pretending to be that bold. "If they take me, I'd volunteer in the name of their science."
He smirked. "Altruistic much?"
"That's a myth."
"Agreed. Every good deed has a selfish motive," he jumped in. Then quickly pivoted: "Should people check their ex's socials?"
I frowned. "Who doesn't?"
Our eyes hooked and we said it at the same time: "Sociopaths."
And then we laughed and I added, "Or those that never loved," which made his brows flick up.
"Mmm. So you're a scroller," he said.
"Not really. I'm too avoidant." I tipped my chin toward him. "You strike me as the obsessive type."
"I'm not!" He held a hand to his heart mock-offended, giving himself away. "I'm above it. I only spiral internally like a gentleman."
I laughed. "Nice. So you're the neurotic type."
He tipped his head. "So you're that kind of a girl. Diagnosing people for fun."
I shrugged. "Occupational hazard. I overanalyze everything."
He pursed his lips, eyes amused. "I should probably warn your boyfriend. Tell him to run. For his sake, you know."
Was it on the flirty side? Probably. Definitely.
But it was the most effortless and unedited conversation I've ever had.
It felt like we've known each other forever.
There are people you meet and immediately know they'll become part of you. Then there are those you meet and realize they were part of you long before you met them.
Ben was that for me.
I loved David, really, but over the next few months, it became clear: Ben and I had gravity.
Whenever we were in close proximity—a static charge in the air.
I'd look up and there he was, watching me as though he's still trying to figure out who I am before he'd vanish.
You'd see him alone in the corner, cueing the pool balls like the world didn't exist. Then he'd come back and say something like: "I wasn't ignoring you.
Just needed to clear my head. You ever get that feeling someone's rewired your brain without permission? " Just unexpected. Devastating.
The worst part? He had a girlfriend. And every time they came together, it was its own special hell.
David once let me flash spinach in my teeth throughout the entire dinner with his friends. At the time I told myself he loved me so much, he didn't see it.
Later I found out he didn't see me at all.
Ben... the way he gently fixed his girlfriend's eyelash that kept poking her eye, or when she was irritable, he'd dim the lights and changed the playlist to lo-fi without anyone noticing.
Well, I noticed, and was so ready to buy a diary, scratch my hand and scribble his name with my own blood. It was that dramatic.
So much, I knew it could never be anything more. Too sacred to survive reality.
A car horn yanks me back and I catch myself flipping off the driver, even though I'm clearly walking on red.
Damn, five minutes thinking about Ben and I'm already a rage in kitten heels.
The new doorman nods at me with raised brows, obviously having seen my little road meltdown.
Great. Perfect first impression. I give him my best smile.
Inside the lobby, boxes still ring the walls, but at least the elevator's already waiting. Guess it's my lucky day.
I step in, lean against the mirror, and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Soon, I'll be back... back where I've been.
The doors start closing and I realize I haven't even pressed my floor, so I lean in to make sure nobody calls me over, just when a hand darts between mine and the panel.
And instantly my heart shatters into a thousand frantic beats, because I realize what that scent in the elevator was.
That cedar and bergamot. The impossible blend of power with seduction, and then that scent that belongs only to him.
The door slides open. I follow the hand to the face—
Fuck. Me.
You'd hope time dulled your crush, but no, his agonizing beauty sharpened into something sublime.
No age has touched him. He's still the guy I left three years ago, clean-shaven, probably griping about a scraggly attempt at scruff, but his eyes... darker somehow, marked by experiences I wasn't part of.
His scrubs are clinging to his sculpted body, black strands fall into his face, and then his eyes lock on mine—and they widen in that slow, sickening shock of meeting someone you swore you'd never see again.
"Emma?"
That voice. Sandpaper over silk—it hits me like déjà vu in the ribs.
"Ben?" I barely breathe.
For one suspended second, we just stand there, in between the open door, neither wanting to look away first.
"What... what the hell are you doing here?" My whisper trembles.
His eyes pinch and suddenly—snap—shield on. Emergency doctor steps in. Cool. Controlled.
Except the pulse on his neck says otherwise, and it beats unison with mine.
He walks past me, leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. Cocks his brow. "Really? That's how you greet me after three years?"
True, I could have said it more polished, but what do you do when a ghost who broke your heart reappears? Senses and manners evaporate.
By the way, my foot is back to tapping, because it knew he was here before I did.
"I mean, what are you doing here?" I try again, a bit smoother this time.
He holds still, trying to give nothing away, and then drags in a breath.
"Just moved back to San Francisco," he says finally, voice flat. "Going home."
My pulse trips and I whip my head to him. "Excuse me? What do you mean home? You... You live here? In this building?"
He makes a face and snorts mockingly. "Since when are we this formal? But yes, my lady, excuse you." He nods once. "This building."
My throat goes dry and I just keep blinking because what? What?!
"No. Absolutely no," I manage.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing to slits. "Do you own it or something?"
"Well, I live here," I say it like I actually do own it, goddamn it.
Ben blinks his indignation away, takes me in for a beat, and then snorts a disbelieving laugh. "What?"
I nod frantically. "Yeah! Eight months now."
He frowns, blinks, and then—he starts laughing. Tips his head back against the wall, hand covering his mouth as he mutters something that sounds a lot like "you've got to be fucking kidding me."
"And what exactly is so funny?" I snap.
"I mean, life?" he says, letting out the last strained laugh. Then he straightens, like he suddenly realized something, and looks at me. "Wait. You think I moved here because of you?"
I hate how he says it. Like the thought is ridiculous. Like I'm ridiculous.
"I don't think anything," I snap. I don't think about you at all.
Jabbing the button for twenty, I keep my face forward, hoping that's the end of it, but something about it makes him laugh again.
I never thought seeing Ben again would carry this much homicidal energy in the first sixty seconds.
But then again, it's Ben—he owns some cosmic birthright to always get under my skin.
I turn to him, ready to assassinate, but he gives me the fake puppy-eyed look, almost pitiful because I'm not on the joke yet. That comes a second after when he leans in and presses his floor. Twenty-one.
I swallow hard. Twenty-one?
He lives one floor above me?!
No way.
The door closes sealing us inside, and my heart lurches like the elevator's free-falling, even though it crawls, painfully slow. Slow enough that I can't resist—we lock gaze in the mirror.
Hold for a second.
Veer off.
Like magnets flipped the other way.
I catch his eyes in the mirror, tracing my body. Not in a casual glance, but mapping every curve he remembers. Openly. Shamelessly.
He told me once that my curves were built for destruction. I hope he meant his.
And yeah, I absolutely weaponized them however I could even though they were never useful. They just made him stare. Like now.
I cross my arms and shoot him a pointed "ehem."
It doesn't throw him off, he just frowns and says, "You're different. And thinner." His voice is laced more with worry than mockery, but still—the nerve.
Different? Thinner? If I was out of this coffin of a dress and in my jeans, he'd choke.
"Seriously?" I stab him with my eyes. "That's your opener after three years?"
Still unfazed, he scans me one more time, frowning. "I just want to know you're good... Are you?"
I breathe in, tempted to tell him he's right, that I am different now. I'm not the Emma he knew, who was reckless, and wouldn't have known her own worth even if it stood in front of her.
I'm settled, balanced, and won't let anyone to disrupt that. But I stay quiet.
Let him feel what it's like to be left on read in real life.
When I don't answer, he says, "Don't worry. You still look good." The smirk in it practically audible.
I manage a polite "Thanks. So do you," and make the mistake of flicking my eyes to him.
Understatement of the century. Looking at him hurts like staring directly in the sun.
He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, then shuts it. I don't help him. After our tragic fall out what do you even say?
So we're brewing in the tension over the ten floors, and I pretend that that I don't feel his heat—that familiar warmth that somehow always seeps into my skin.
The elevator slows.
Chime.
A mercy.
The door slides open and I step out, telling myself not to glance back.
Go home to your grey pajamas and empty pages, pretend this never happened. You're good at pretending.
"See you around, Emma," he says behind me, softer but heavier now, like he wants me to turn.
Don't turn, Emma. Don't.
I turn.
And in that one heartbeat as our eyes catch, the air between us pulls—three years with everything unsaid, unfelt, unforgiven.
"See you, Ben," I mutter.
"See you, neighbor," he says, eyes stuck on mine as the doors shut between us.
And then he's gone. But the burn in my chest? It stays, spreading like a wildfire across my whole body.
Three years, all that work to forget him, and all it took is one elevator ride to find out it was for nothing.
I shouldn't be surprised.
Because the truth is, once you give someone a piece of your soul, you never get it back—not really—and no matter how much time or logic or therapy, you still ache for them to come back and make you feel whole again.
And now? He's one floor above me.
Just a ceiling away.