Slow It Down

Part 3 •REWRITTEN•

He studies me, but not like I'm a stranger. It's something else, something unreadable, like he's seeing a ghost from his past.

I knew Jackson once. Really knew him. He used to be my neighbor, my childhood friend, my brother's best friend. He practically lived at our house, except for overnight stays—unless it was summer or sometimes holidays.

Back then, I spent years trailing behind him and Kayce, desperate to be included, even though they always ditched me the first chance they got. I knew it was all in good fun, even when they groaned about me tagging along.

Until...

I swallow hard, forcing the memory back. I don't want to think about that. Not right now.

Shaking my head, I blink myself back into the moment. Jackson still looks just as stunned as I feel, like he can't believe I'm standing in front of him.

It's been years—four, to be exact. We were close once, but life happened. I moved, and whatever bond we had vanished with the distance. I never understood why he never made an effort to keep in touch after we left. I mean, he and Kayce stayed friends, so it wouldn't have been hard for him to reach out. I've come to the conclusion he just suddenly hated me.

I should be indifferent about it by now.

I should have forgotten about him a long time ago.

But looking at him now—seeing him smirk, cocky as ever—something stirs inside me.

"The one and only," he says, his voice a mix of amusement and something else.

The way he says it—so familiar, so casual, like no time has passed—sends a sudden flutter through my stomach. The exact kind of flutter I swore I buried years ago.

I force myself to snap out of it. It's just the alcohol making me weird. That's all.

As if on cue, the moment shatters when the heels strapped around my wrist slacken and slip suddenly, tumbling to the floor with a soft thud. Instinctively, I bend down to grab them.

At the same time, Jackson moves too.

Our heads collide hard. They meet with a dull, painful thud that sends a shock through my entire body.

A sharp pain explodes in my skull, making me gasp. The impact knocks me backward, and before I can catch myself, I land flat on my butt. My back hits the cool wall, my head following suit, a thud echoing down the hall.

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. The pounding in my skull intensifies, like a hammer repeatedly striking from the inside out. My vision blurs, the dizziness swelling. I press my hand to the back of my head as I struggle to catch a breath. The sudden collision jolts me from the lingering haze of intoxication, and I'm aware of every nerve ending screaming in protest.

"Fuck, Lilah," Jackson hisses, his voice low and rough. "I'm so sorry. Here, let me help you up."

His voice is different than I remember—deeper, rougher, carrying a rugged edge that wasn't there before. Despite the pounding in my head, a small, involuntary giggle escapes me at the sound of his voice—a deep, resonant tone that feels both comforting and strangely unfamiliar, the alcohol making everything ten times funnier than it should be.

He immediately moves to help me up, his hands gently reaching out. I protest, lifting my hand to say I can stand on my own, silently telling him I've got this because my words dissolve into the swirling chaos of my mind.

Bad idea.

The second I push off the floor, my balance wavers. My legs feel weak, disconnected. My butt barely makes it off the floor before I fall back. My back slumps against the wall, my body refusing to cooperate.