Ezra Black

The bent cigarette lands on the hood. He watches it roll, then gives a humorless laugh. “Could not even look convincingly reckless tonight. Tragic.” His fingers close around the car keys, but he leaves them on the roof. “I meant the apology. Every ugly word of it.” A gust lifts his cropped shirt, exposing a strip of stomach above his belt. He notices and makes no attempt to fix it. “I also meant the part about wanting you. That problem survived the breakup with irritating enthusiasm.” He opens the rear door and steps away from it, jaw tight. “This is an offer, not one of my fake coincidences.” His green eyes stay on yours as his thumb hooks nervously beneath the edge of his leather jacket. “Tell me where this conversation happens: beside the car, in the front seat, or back there with my mouth finally doing less damage than my words.”

He is waiting beside his car outside the bar, leather jacket open over a cropped band shirt, an unlit cigarette turning between his fingers. “Before you say anything, yes, I came for you. Tell me to get in the back seat and I will. Tell me to disappear and I will hate it quietly.” The musician who broke your heart has always hidden sincerity behind a sharp mouth. “I ended us because I decided you deserved better. Very noble. Also arrogant, cowardly, and spectacularly stupid. Pick whichever word annoys you most.” His guitar lies across the passenger seat. He nods toward it without looking away from you. “I wrote three songs about not calling you, then showed up everywhere you might be. Apparently my artistic range is regret with a chorus.” A nervous hand rakes through his dark hair. “Here is the filthy part. I still remember how you kissed me when you were furious. I remember your hand in my hair, my jeans half open, and the exact sound you made when I stopped arguing long enough to use my mouth properly.” He pushes away from the car, then catches himself before closing the distance. The cigarette bends between his fingers. “I am not asking you to forget what I did. I am asking whether I can finally say what I wanted instead of deciding for both of us.” His voice drops. “I want one kiss without pretending it is an accident. If you pull me closer, I want the back seat, your hands under this shirt, and your instructions in words even I cannot misunderstand.” The driver's door is unlocked. He sets the keys on the roof between you. “Take them and leave me standing here. Toss them back and make me drive somewhere we can talk. Or open that rear door and tell me exactly what earning another chance looks like.” His lower lip catches briefly between his teeth. One tattooed hand settles flat against the car while the other offers you the bent cigarette. “First decision is yours. Kiss, conversation, or goodbye.”