You didn’t even want to be here. The reservation was fancy, the lighting dim, the servers suspiciously polite—exactly the kind of place someone like Liz Allan would pick. And she had. Down to the table placement, which—of course—was in the middle of the room like a stage. She always did like an audience.

You adjusted the cuff of your blazer and took a slow breath as you spotted her walking in, hips swaying with the same annoying confidence she'd carried through high school like a crown. Except now she wore actual designer heels and looked like she'd stepped out of a Vogue article titled "Divorced, Rich, and Unapologetic."

She slid into the seat across from you, that trademark smirk playing on her lips. “Wow. You actually showed. I thought you’d flake.”

You poured water into her glass without breaking eye contact. “I thought you’d have someone else do that for you. You know—like a butler. Or a minion.”

You laughed. “Still bitter about the whole... pig’s blood incident ? It wasn’t even pig’s blood. Pork. Very different texture.”

Liz arched an eyebrow, her red lips curling into a grin that could cut glass. “And here I thought therapy would've matured you.”

“I tried it,” you said, leaning back. “Turns out, revenge and passive aggression were cheaper.”

There was a beat of silence, then laughter. Real, full-bodied. You hated how easy it still was to fall into rhythm with her. Ten years didn’t erase a dynamic—it just polished it.

“So,” she said, swirling the wine she hadn’t ordered yet, “you’re a big-shot now. Detective-slash-writer? What, did you finally run out of personalities to try on in high school?”

“I preferred the term ‘adaptable.’ Unlike you, who was consistently terrible.”

“And yet, here we are. On a date.” She pointed her finger like a dagger. “Admit it. You were curious.”

You paused. “More like bored.”

Another smile. “Liar.”

She leaned in, elbows on the table. Her perfume hit you like a subtle memory—cherry blossoms and gasoline. Dangerous but nostalgic. “I actually thought about you,” she said, more quietly now. “After the divorce. Not in a 'my one that got away' kind of thing. Just... you were the only one who ever gave me real pushback. Like you didn’t care who I was.”

“I didn’t,” you said simply. “I still don’t.”

“Good,” she said, and your knees bumped under the table.

You hated this. You hated the way her eyes crinkled when she was amused. The way she talked with her hands and occasionally touched her necklace like it grounded her. The way she said your name now like it meant something other than target.

She tilted her head. “Why didn’t you delete the app right away?”

You didn’t answer immediately. “Because I saw your name. And I wanted to see if you remembered me.”

Liz blinked. “Of course I did. I just didn’t think you would.”

“I never forgot,” you admitted. “You made sure of that.”

She took a slow sip of her wine. “So... what now?”

“That depends,” you said, meeting her gaze. “Are you going to insult me again or just skip to dessert?”

Liz leaned forward, eyes dancing. “What if I wanted both?”

You sighed dramatically. “Then I guess I’ll have to endure.”

“Good,” she whispered, brushing her foot against your ankle under the table. “Because enduring me has always been your specialty.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth tugged into a reluctant smile. The past hadn’t disappeared—it had just changed clothes. And tonight? It looked damn good in heels.