What If We Tried Again: Chapter Two - Depth of Field

 Hayes is used to looking at the world through a lens, keeping everything at a safe distance. But standing on a dark terrace with Jude, the "distance" between Berlin and home finally collapses.

Chapter Two

Depth of Field

 Hayes

The weight of him against my chest is a phantom pain made real. For eighteen months, I’ve imagined this—Jude in my arms, the scent of his skin, the way he fits into the curve of my body like he was designed for it. And now that he’s actually here, I feel like I’m vibrating apart.

The music from the ballroom filters out onto the terrace, a distant, muffled reminder that the rest of the world exists. But out here in the shadows, it’s just the two of us and the cold stone of the railing. I can feel the heat radiating off him, a contrast to the biting evening air.

I press my forehead against his, closing my eyes. I can feel him trembling. Or maybe it’s me. My hands, usually so steady when I’m holding a camera, are shaking as they rest on his waist.

"One dance," I whisper, the words feeling like a prayer. "That’s all I asked for."

"You always ask for one thing and take another, Hayes," Jude says. His voice is a ragged thread of sound, but he doesn't pull away. His fingers are still curled into the hair at the back of my neck, holding me there. Holding me, not just touching me.

"I’m not taking anything tonight," I tell him. I pull back just an inch, enough to look into those eyes—the same eyes that used to watch me sleep, now guarded and sharp with the hurt I put there. "I’m just... I’m standing here. I’m finally standing still. I’m done running, Jude."

The song fades out, the final piano notes lingering in the humid air before the upbeat tempo of a pop song kicks in. The spell doesn't break, but it cracks. Jude lets out a long, shaky breath and finally drops his hands, the sudden absence of his touch feeling like a drop in temperature.

"We should go back in," Jude says, stepping away. He brushes at his suit jacket, his movements frantic and stiff, as if he’s trying to wipe the memory of my hands off the fabric. "People will notice. Chloe already thinks something is up."

"Let them notice," I say, though I know he’s right. Jude always cared about the optics, the polished surface of things. I was the one who liked to get underneath, to find the mess. "But fine. Let's go back to Table Nine and play the part."

Walking back into the ballroom feels like walking into a different climate. The heat, the noise, the bright gold lights—it’s all too much after the quiet of the terrace. I follow Jude back to our seats, watching the way his shoulders are hunched, as if he’s bracing for a hit. He sits down and immediately reaches for his water, drinking it as if he’s been wandering a desert.

We sit down just as the main course is being served. The bridesmaid, Cami, is already leaning toward me again, her glass of wine nearly empty and her eyes bright with interest.

"There you are," she chirps, her hand finding my bicep again. It feels like a lead weight. "I thought you’d deserted us for the open bar already."

I catch Jude’s profile. He’s staring straight ahead at the center of the dance floor, his jaw tight. He looks miserable, and a sick, selfish part of me is glad. Because if he’s miserable, it means he still cares. If he didn't care, he’d be laughing. He’d be flirting back with some stranger.

"Just needed some air," I tell Cami, forcing a smile that doesn't reach my eyes.

"Well, now that you’re back, you have to tell me about Berlin," she says, leaning closer. Her perfume is sweet—too sweet—and it makes me miss the rain-and-cedar scent of Jude. "I’ve always wanted to go. Is it as romantic as everyone says? I imagine it's all cobblestones and candlelight."

"It’s a city of ghosts," I say, my eyes sliding toward Jude. He flinches, just a tiny movement of his hand on the tablecloth. "Plenty of history. Not much room for romance if you’re looking for the wrong thing. It’s a place where you go to get lost, but you usually just end up finding the things you were trying to leave behind."

"Ouch," Cami laughs, oblivious to the subtext. "You’re a bit of a cynic, aren't you? Is that part of the photographer's brooding starter pack?"

"He’s a realist," Jude interrupts. He finally turns his head, his gaze cool and level as it lands on Cami. "Hayes doesn't do romantic. He does... perspective. He likes to look at things from a distance so he doesn't have to get his hands dirty."

He says the word like a dirty secret. Perspective. The thing I told him I needed when I packed my bags eighteen months ago. The thing I thought would make me a better artist but only made me a lonelier man.

"Perspective is important for a photographer," Cami says, trying to keep the conversation on her turf. "You have to see things other people miss."

"Oh, he sees everything," Jude says, his voice dripping with a sudden, sharp-edged sarcasm that makes the couple across from us look down at their plates. He reaches for his wine, draining the glass in one go. "He just doesn't always know what to do with it once it’s in focus. He’s great at the capture, terrible at the development."

The tension at the table is thick enough to choke on. I can feel the heat of Jude’s anger radiating off him, and it’s a living thing. I want to grab his hand under the table and squeeze until he looks at me. Not with coldness, but with the fire I know is still there.

I lean in, lowering my voice so only Jude can hear me over the clinking of silver. "Are we doing this now, J? In front of the salmon?"

"Don't call me that," he snaps, his eyes flashing with a sudden, beautiful hurt. "And we aren't doing anything. I’m just making conversation with your new friend."

He turns to the man on his other side, a guy I don’t recognize, and starts an animated conversation about urban planning. It’s a dismissal. A wall. He’s using his professional life as a shield, and it’s a move I recognize from our darkest days.

I spend the next twenty minutes half-listening to Cami talk about her career in PR, while every nerve ending in my body is tuned to the man sitting six inches to my left. I watch the way Jude’s hand shakes when he goes to adjust his silverware. I watch the way he avoids looking at me, even when our knees accidentally brush under the cramped table. Every time our skin touches—even through layers of wool and cotton—it’s like a jump-start to my heart.

Finally, the speeches start. Leo stands up, looking happy and terrified in equal measure. He talks about Chloe, about how he knew the moment he saw her that his life was going to be divided into before and after.

Before and after.

I look at Jude. He’s watching Leo, his expression soft and heartbreakingly sad. I know what he’s thinking. We had a before. We were supposed to have an after. But we got stuck in the middle, in the messy, gray space of the what if. We became a cautionary tale while our friends became a triumph.

"To Chloe and Leo," the room choruses, a sea of glasses rising into the air.

I drink, but the champagne tastes like ash. I look at Jude, and for a split second, he looks back. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated longing that he’s too tired to hide.

As soon as the toast is over and the band starts back up with a high-energy set, the room dissolves into motion. People are heading for the bar, for the dance floor, for the exits.

"I’m going to get another drink," Jude says, standing up so fast his chair nearly topples.

"I'll come with you," I say, standing just as quickly. Cami starts to say something, but I ignore her. There is only Jude.

"I don't need an escort, Hayes. I’ve managed to buy my own drinks for eighteen months."

"I need the drink, Jude. Relax. It’s a big room."

We walk toward the bar in silence, a tense, vibrating silence that makes the hair on my arms stand up. The line is long, a bottleneck of thirsty guests, so we end up standing in a shadowed alcove near the back of the room, waiting for an opening.

Jude is staring at a floral arrangement like it holds the secrets of the universe, his chest heaving.

"You’re doing it again," I say softly, stepping into his line of sight.

"Doing what?"

"Running." I step closer, blocking him into the alcove, using my height to shield him from the crowd. I’m tired of the games. I’m tired of Cami and the small talk and the eighteen months of pretending I’m fine. "You get overwhelmed, and you run. You did it on the terrace, and you’re doing it now. You’re looking for the nearest exit."

"I am not running," he says, his voice rising, thick with tears he refuses to shed. He looks up at me, and the mask is gone. Underneath is the raw, jagged hurt of a man who’s been hollowed out. "I am trying to survive this night without screaming, Hayes! Do you have any idea what it’s like? To have you just... show up? To sit there and look at me with those eyes like you didn't break my damn heart?"

The word break hangs in the air between us, heavy and permanent. It’s the first time he’s admitted it. The first time he’s let me see the cracks.

"I know," I say, my voice cracking. I reach out, my hand trembling as I cup his jaw. This time, he doesn't flinch. He leans into it, just a fraction of an inch, his eyes fluttering shut. "I didn't take anything with me, J. That was the problem. I left my heart here, with you. Because you are my heart. I spent eighteen months realizing that I didn't move on—I just moved away."

I let my thumb trace the line of his cheekbone. He feels so real. So solid. "I missed you so much it felt like I was dying. Every time I saw something beautiful, I reached for my phone to tell you, only to remember I didn't have the right anymore."

Jude lets out a sob—a small, broken sound that he tries to swallow. He opens his eyes, and they’re swimming with tears, reflecting the gold lights of the ballroom.

"What if we tried again?" he asks, the words so quiet I almost miss them. It’s the question that’s been haunting us both. "What if it’s just the same mess as before? What if we're just better at hurting each other than loving each other?"

"Then let it be a mess," I say, my voice dropping to a low, fierce growl. I step even closer, our chests brushing with every breath. "I’d rather be a mess with you than perfect with anyone else. I’m done with 'What If', Jude. I want 'What Is'."

His gaze drops to my mouth, and I know I’m lost. The bar, the wedding, the hundreds of people—they all fade into a blur of meaningless noise.

"Hayes," he breathes, his hand coming up to grip my wrist, his pulse thrumming against my skin.

"Say it," I prompt, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Tell me to stop, or tell me to stay. But don't tell me to be polite."

Jude doesn't say either. Instead, he reaches up, grabs my tie with a fist of pure desperation, and pulls me down.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

The Tagline: He’s spent a year chasing the light, only to find it was always right here.

The Trope: Dual POV / Right Person, Wrong Time

The Thought: Chapter two flips the script. We realize Hayes wasn't the cold, moving-on success story Jude thought he was. By getting inside Hayes's head, we see that Berlin was a prison of his own making. This chapter highlights the realization that "perspective" is useless if you're looking at the wrong view.

The Question: Do you prefer the "pining" POV or the "bitter" POV in a second-chance romance?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix