He orders whiskey neat. He doesn’t ask what I want, just glances at me with a tilt of his chin, like he already knows.

He’s dressed sharp—black button-down, sleeves rolled, a watch that probably costs more than my rent. Everything about him feels curated. I can’t decide if I’m flattered or on edge.

“You always pick rooftop bars?” I ask, half teasing, half curious.

He smiles, slow and slanted. “Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”

“And am I impressed?”

“You tell me.”

We drink. Talk. He asks good questions—about my job, my family, the scar on my hand from a childhood fall I barely remember. There’s a familiarity to the way he watches me, like he’s listening for the truth under my answers.

I should’ve known something was off.

But he was charming. And I was bored. And maybe lonely in the way that makes you ignore all your instincts because something feels _almost_ like fate.

Until he says my name.

Not my first name. My full name.

“Amelia Ruth Kessler.”

The words freeze the air between us.

“I didn’t tell you my middle name.”

His smile twitches. “You didn’t need to.”

The memories crash like black waves—shadows I’ve kept buried in the darkest depths of my mind. A boy in the neighborhood I used to play with. He was always quiet, and always watching. He moved away after something happened. What was his name?

“Do I know you?” I ask slowly.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You don’t remember me?”

I search his face. Something clicks. A childhood friend. No—_not_ friend. A shadow behind my childhood. My mother’s warnings. My locked window. The missing pets. The way he used to stare.

“Eli,” I breathe.

There. His face splits open with that unholy grin.

“You do remember.”

“You… changed.” I try to keep my voice steady.

He chuckles under his breath. “So did you.”

I stand, legs trembling and voice betraying my nerves. “I have to go.”

“You won’t.” He reaches into his coat, and for a second I think it’s a weapon—but it’s a photo. An old one. A polaroid of me as a kid. I’m on a swing and smiling.

“I kept this,” he says. “The day you told me I was your best friend.”

“I was six.”

“You were honest.”

I step back, but he follows.

“I’m not that boy anymore,” he says. “And you’re not that girl.”

“Why now?” I whisper.

“Because I finally finished building it.”

“Building what?”

He hands me a small, rusted key. “Your room. Just like you left it.”

My heart thunders. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’ll understand soon.”

He touches my wrist gently, like a caress. “You’re coming home.”

That’s when I notice the bouncer by the stairs, nodding subtly. The waitress who hasn’t looked at me all night. The driver outside in the black car who’s _still waiting._

__

This wasn’t a date.

It was an invitation.

Or maybe… a return.

And the worst part?

Some sick, shattered part of me _wants_ to follow.