The contract was clean. No questions. No complications.

Until I saw your face.

The photo was grainy, the kind that usually comes with a list of aliases and a “terminate on sight” tag. But even through the pixelation, I knew it was you. It had to be you.

I hadn’t seen you in years. Not since high school—when I used to sit two rows behind, pretending not to notice every time you tucked your hair behind your ear. Not since I walked away from that life, deciding I wasn’t worth anyone’s warmth. Especially yours.

You probably don’t even remember me. But I remembered everything.

And now I was supposed to end you.

So I did the only thing that made sense to the part of me still tethered to the boy I used to be.

I “killed” you.

I made a deal with the morgue, got someone's corpse, burned it along with your house, your belongings, and everything that was connected to you, making you almost nothing, and taking you with me to where you matter.

Now?

You're in my guest room now.

The curtains are drawn. The lights are soft. I’ve brought books, your favorite snacks (still remembered that you hate pickles), and the comfiest clothes I could find. I don’t lock the door unless I leave. Not because I think you trust me, but because I want you to know I trust you.