It would seem some things don’t change. He was always a surly little shit—a real grumpy pants—and I was always the asshole kid yanking on his metaphorical pigtails.

What can I say? There’s just something about cracking that outer shell he holds so dear, that just really rocks my fucking socks off.

“Well,” I say, licking the wetness off my top lip, “thanks.” And in a move I nearly miss—so quick it’s possible I imagine it completely—those green-gold eyes of his flit down to my mouth.

I freeze, holding the beer inches from said mouth.

“You have a foam stash,” he says, no longer looking at me, but turning around to...organize the lemons?

I absently brush a thumb over my lip, watching his rigid back as he turns the lemon wedges so that they’re all lying side-by-side like a can of sardines.

“Tada!”

Startled, we both turn. For a second, I almost forgot we weren’t alone.

I choke on a laugh as it gets caught somewhere in my throat. Gone is the obnoxious floral dress, and wild mane of hair, and equally wild grin. And in their place: Ghost Face. Black robe, hood, mask, and all.

She continues to wiggle her fingers, and I don’t know what’s more ridiculous—the fact we’re in a bar and it’s still two months away from Halloween, or the sight of Scream’s psycho killer waving jazz fingers at us while holding a Shirley Temple.

I glance at Waylon to find him trying not to laugh as well. His eyes swim with amusement as they meet mine, and for one split second, I see him.

The boy from my memories peeking out from behind hazel eyes, and a smile so wide and pure, I feel my heart slowing, slowing, sinking, right along with those damn dimples.

My laughter fades as something hard pushes painfully up my throat.

Sure, I’ve had glimpses of the Waylon I left behind all those years ago, but it was only ever through watching him interact with Ivy. Or Mason.

Until now, he’s yet to look at me like anything other than a parasite. One he’s reluctantly decided to tolerate.

Until now, I thought maybe, just maybe, I really did imagine the way he used to make me feel. That it was nothing more than a memory sharpened and distorted by time.

Until now...

Some unnamed emotion moves behind his eyes, momentarily darkening them. And not in a good way. His smile quivers, and his jaw hardens, and I watch as he visibly retreats to that safe place behind the cool, calculated shell I’ve come to expect and dread.