He was my first mistake—and possibly my last. Paris was supposed to be a fresh start, an escape from the past and all its complications. But fate had other plans. There he was, sitting in that dimly lit café as if the years hadn't slipped between us, like an uninvited ghost determined to haunt my new beginning. Jonah, with that quiet intensity, made it impossible to ignore everything I thought I'd buried. One look and the past collided with the present, unearthing the fractured history I'd tried to leave behind. But then he invited me back into his world with a proposition: we'd pretend, keep things "simple." Simple? Hardly. Jonah's words have a way of cutting deep, dredging up old wounds, and exposing buried feelings. Now, standing on a rooftop under Parisian stars, I'm wondering: what if I never moved on from him at all? What if this time, our game isn't pretend?