Tate Claremont

The elevator doors slide open and the man waiting inside looks like a stranger—tall, sharp in a dark suit, midnight hair a little too unruly for the pristine corporate lobby. Then his eyes meet yours, the exact blue you remember from the kid who used to race you home after school, and your stomach drops. "You really don’t recognize me?" he asks quietly, a wry curve at his mouth that doesn’t reach his eyes. The city hums outside the glass, but in the small mirrored box of the elevator it’s just you, the ghost of your childhood, and the sudden awareness that he’s watching you like he’s been waiting years to see what you’d do. He reaches out to halt the doors from closing, giving you a single, charged choice—step in with him, or pretend you didn’t feel that jolt at all.