Nostalgic Mix-up

Jared Petrovski watched his wife from the shadows, her radiant smile lighting up the strobe-filled room.

Nightclubs weren't his scene—never had been. He used to bartend part-time in places like this. He hated every second of it. The pounding music, the crush of bodies, it all grated on him.

He preferred the quiet, the stillness of his own space. Yet here he was, tucked away in a corner, just to make sure she was okay.

It had been so long since he'd seen that carefree, glowing smile on her face. She used to be like this all the time—social, full of life, so she had told him. But that version of her had faded before they even met.

Seeing her now, enjoying herself, pulled at something deep inside him. His chest tightened, and he rubbed at the ache that wouldn't go away. Part of him was happy for her. She deserved to feel good, to smile. But then his gaze landed on Harold Braddock, lurking near her, always close.

That familiar knot twisted in Jared's gut. Harold, with his easy charm, effortless smile, and the weight of their shared past. Jerica looked so comfortable with him, too comfortable. Especially as the alcohol started to blur her lines.

Jared's eyes narrowed as he spotted a drunk guy stumbling toward her. Instinctively, he moved through the crowd, ready to step in—but Harold beat him to it, smoothly diffusing the situation like he had done it a million times before. Jared's jaw clenched.

That should've been me.

It stung. Harold always seemed to swoop in like that—her first boyfriend, her first everything. She should have been his, only his.

He felt an irrational urge to march over there, grab Jerica's hand, and pull her out of the club. But just as he took a step forward, she turned, her eyes scanning the room. Their eyes almost met, and Jared's heart skipped a beat. Panic surged, and without thinking, he ducked behind a group of people like a teenager caught in a stupid prank.

What am I doing? He shook his head, annoyed at himself. She'd chosen him, married him. Jerica loved him for his stability, his maturity.

The last thing she needed was for him to act like some jealous idiot, especially in public. If she saw him here, she might think he was spying on her, suffocating her. And he trusted her—he had to trust her.

With a sigh, Jared turned on his heel and left the club, but the image of her smile stayed with him, a bittersweet reminder of what they used to have. As he drove home, the empty passenger seat seemed to mock him. He missed her.

Back in the club, Jerica, feeling pleasantly buzzed, found a quiet corner to catch her breath. Her legs ached from dancing, and she glanced at her phone. 8:05 PM. It was still early, but all she wanted was to go home, sink into a bath, and forget the noise.

Her finger swiped across the phone screen—no messages, no missed calls. Not even a "Where are you?" or "I'll be late" from Jared. She tossed the phone back into her purse with a frustrated sigh.

Why was she the only one thinking about him when he hadn't even bothered to check in? She could've sworn she saw him in the crowd earlier, but it was probably just the alcohol playing tricks on her.

Her head spun as she pushed through the sweaty crowd, heading for the exit. Just when she thought she was free, she ran straight into a broad chest, nearly toppling over from the collision. The familiar scent hit her before she even looked up.

Her lips curved. Her husband had come here to get her. "You're wearing that cologne..." Jerica mumbled, grabbing onto the lapel of the suit for balance.

His warmth spread to her and her lips curved with delight. She didn't think he still wore that cologne she gifted him. She chose that woody scent for him as she thought it suited him. She loved it when he smelled like a pine forest.

"Because you gave it to me," Harold's voice rang.

She looked up to meet eyes with Harold, grinning. His eyes sparkled with a nostalgia she wasn't in the mood for. "Remember? Thirteenth birthday gift? Been using it ever since."

She blinked, annoyed when she realized it was Harold, not Jared. The pine scent disappeared like a dream to be replaced with a citrusy scent. Why had she expected her husband in a place like this? That was stupid. And more importantly…

Mistaking Harold for Jared—that annoyed her even more.

If she was that drunk to mix up her husband's scent with her ex, then she needed to leave.

Jerica rolled her eyes at Harold still grinning. His eyes still held the tenderness she used to love in the past. He had held on to her gift all this while. Hating the small pang of sweetness that stirred in her chest, she cleared her throat. "Move. I wanna go home," she pouted, swaying slightly on her feet.

Harold chuckled, blocking her path. "You're drunk, Jerica," he said, bending down a bit to meet her eyes. "At least eat something before you leave."

Just then, someone jostled Harold from behind, sending him stumbling forward—but he managed to catch his balance without touching her.

Jerica sighed, feeling a weird, familiar comfort in that gesture. Harold was a gentleman in his own, annoying way. He never crossed lines she didn't want him to cross. But the realization only irritated her more. She didn't want to be there anymore.

"I'm leaving," she announced, more to herself than to anyone, and stumbled toward the door.

Harold's eyes followed her retreat, his fists clenching at his sides. "Run away for now, Princess," he muttered under his breath. "But I'll get you soon."

He turned around, only to come face-to-face with Lila Anderson, her flushed face almost pressed against his.

"So, Mr. Braddock," Lila slurred, holding onto her cocktail for dear life. "What kind of 'friends' were you and Jerica?"

Harold nearly jumped out of his skin, startled by the sudden invasion of his personal space.

Friends? Is that what Jerica wanted people to believe? Harold scoffed internally but flashed his signature smile that always worked. Wrapping an arm around Lila to steady her, he said, "Let me get you a taxi, Ms. Anderson. You've had enough for one night."

Lila barely protested as he led her toward the exit, a small smirk playing on his lips.