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My thumb flicks downward, taking me back to the most recent video. It should be cringe that he has posted a thirst trap, but he’s simply too sexy for it to be considered an ick. He’s leaning against what looks like the employee entrance at the park. The lighting is low, like the video was filmed after closing. He isn’t posing, exactly. He’s just standing there, as if waiting for innocent bystanders, his shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly, eyes lifting to the camera at the very last second.

It’s the look that ruins me. My breath catches, embarrassingly sharp, and I glance toward the door like someone might have heard it. The apartment stays quiet. I turn the volume up a notch despite myself. He doesn’t say anything. Just shifts his weight, jaw flexing, and then the video ends.

I stare at the frozen frame. This version of Ash feels dangerous in a way I don’t completely understand. I swipe to the comments again, forcing myself to read them as exposure therapy. People thirst openly, joking about wanting to be scared by him, asking where he works, when he’s on shift. My stomach twists. They don’t know him. They don’t know he used to hate attention. That he preferred sitting beside me in bed with our backs against the wall, drawing and writing passages in our notebooks. That he preferred to be somewhere secluded with me than out in public. That he liked fiction over reality, had his head always stuck in a book, and could quote the most beautiful words, from modern to classic literature.

They don’t know the boy underneath this man. Not like I do. Maybe that’s what unsettles me the most: that he’s letting the world look at him now, when once he only let me see him. I tap his profile again, scrolling slower this time. The mask never comes off.

My phone buzzes suddenly in my hand. I nearly drop it. My heart hammers for some unknown reason and I look down, knowing already, even before the screen lights up.

AshofNight posted a story.

I tap the notification straight away, not caring that he’ll see that I’ve watched it instantly. I clearly have no shame right now. The story loads after a long, painful moment. It’s dark, then the camera shifts, revealing the familiar curve of the park’s gates at night. The caption is in simple white text against the shadows.

Some things don’t stay buried.

My teeth sink into my lower lip as another story loads. This time, the camera’s on him. His black hoodie is on and mask in place, and his piercing eyes stare straight into the camera, as if he is looking right at me from behind the screen.

Come see me.

Another photo appears, and this time it is of his hand – that gorgeous, veined hand of his – holding the mask. Silver glints underneath his sleeve and the corner of a cherry charm peeks out, confirming he does have my bracelet that I lost all those years ago. I don’t understand how he has it, and the fact he is still wearing it blows my mind. Five years is not a short amount of time. The thought of him holding onto it, wearing it, like I have a claim over him still … it sends a shiver down my spine.

It’s so much more fun when we are together.

I blink down at the words, my breath laboured, unable to stop myself from assuming this is his attempt to communicate with me. He is inviting me back to the park again. My throat feels dry as I reload the stories and play through them again.

Rolling my lips inward, I click back onto his latest video. My free hand moves to my stomach, my fingertips lightly dancing across the bare skin where my shirt has come up. Slowly, my hand lowers into my shorts. My finger grazes my clit, and I arch my back at the sensation of it. Exhaling softly, I reach for my vibrator and switch it on, hoping it won’t be heard through the door. My eyes dart to it a few times as I press the vibrator into me. I place my phone down against my pillow, facing the screen toward me as my other hand slips between my thighs. I exhale, slipping a finger inside myself.

He’s broader than I remember. Solid in a way that speaks of time spent at the gym and a lot of physical work. His shoulders slope, strong and relaxed, and his collarbones are sharp. There are faint lines of muscle along his stomach, deep v-lines above his pants. It shouldn’t feel this intimate to look, but it does, because this isn’t some stranger online. This is the boy who called me every day, travelled hours on a train to visit me, who snuck into my house sometimes just to hold me. This is Ash, grown into himself, into something quieter and more dangerous, and still as utterly intoxicating. He might seem dark to everyone else, but I’ve seen the softer side of him – the side his viewers never get to see. They could watch him forever and still never understand him the way I do.

I zoom in before I can stop myself, my eyes tracing the story’s details like they might tell me something I don’t already know. There’s a small scar near his ribs. His posture is loose and confident, like he’s comfortable in his skin now. The thought makes my chest ache. I want his face. Suddenly, I want it desperately, like it’s something vital I’ve been denied for too long. The last time I saw him without the mask there were tears in my eyes, and my heart was in my throat.

I need to see him properly. I need to know if his eyes still soften when he looks at me, even in a crowded room. If he’s still handsome in the way that used to undo me. Logically, I already know the answer. He wouldn’t have changed that much, and bone structure doesn’t disappear. Familiarity doesn’t either, yet there’s this restless need in me to see it all right now.

I don’t want the version of him he gives the internet.

I want him.

Mask off. Guard lowered. Eyes on mine.

My fingers move faster, and the vibrations hit me with just the right amount of pressure. My breath is releasing in short, sharp spurts as I feel my orgasm rising. Throwing my head back, I let out a cry as it courses through me. Sagging back into my pillow, I return my gaze to the screen, staring at him once more. It scares me how fast my obsession with him came back, how easily he has claimed me again, as if I have been waiting for him to step back into my life and take up the space where no one else ever quite fit.

Locking my phone, my heart racing, I press my face into the pillow, slightly mortified at what I just did. I haven’t had much sexual desire for anyone since him. In fact, there were times I thought there might be something wrong with me, but my hunger is back in full force, flooding through me with a power strong enough to knock the air from my lungs.

Seeing his body only makes one thing clear. I need to see his face again, as soon as possible. There’s something strange about seeing him like this: adored, watched, wanted. Ash was always intense, even back then, but this version of him feels different.

My thumb hovers over the message button. I don’t press it. Instead, I lock the screen again and stare up at the ceiling, my thoughts tangled and messy. I tell myself I’m just tired. That this is nostalgia. That I can relax today like I planned, but I know better. Ash is no longer a ghost from my past. He’s real, he’s nearby, and he’s been watching me just as long as I’ve been watching him. I don’t know what that means yet.

Getting to my feet, I stretch, attempting to tell myself this doesn’t mean anything, but no matter how much time passes, no matter how many versions of ourselves we become, some connections don’t fade.

I also pretend that I’m not going to go tonight.

But even I know that is a complete lie.

The park looks different in the afternoon light. Less intimidating. Less menacing. Less theatrical. I hover near the entrance, my hands shoved into my jacket pockets, telling myself I’m just here because I have nothing else to do today. I step up to the ticket booth, already reaching for my wallet. The girl behind the glass barely glances at the screen before looking up at me.

‘Oh – Bryn, right?’

I blink in surprise. ‘Yes?’