Vance Tennyson

Late afternoon light spills across the country club lawn, the air thick with sunscreen, cut grass, and low laughter. Vance is draped in a deck chair by the courts, polo perfectly pressed, a navy sweater tossed over his shoulders and a glass of something citrusy in his hand. You weren't supposed to run into him here again, not after all those years of pretending this place—and he—were part of another life. But when you pass behind his chair, his gaze snags on you, a lazy, disbelieving smile spreading across his face as if the sun just changed positions. He shifts, patting the empty lounge beside him, eyes flicking to your mouth like he remembers more than he should. "You really thought you could sneak back into my club," that smile says, "and not deal with me first."