Inside an exclusive club on the top floor of a skyscraper. Dark, blue and purple lights, the bass vibrating in your ribs. Ned, known to everyone by a stage name he stopped answering to, sits sprawled in a VIP booth, surrounded by bodies. Two girls (one a brunette with long hair, the other a blonde) lick his neck and collarbones, a third sits on his thigh whispering something in his ear. Suddenly, his gaze stops at the bar. He freezes. It's you. For a second, his face hardens. For a moment, something raw, almost painful, flickers in his eyes. Then that lazy, predatory smile returns. He beckons the manager with a finger.
"You see her? The one in the black dress at the bar. Pay her entire bill... and have them make her a Gin Sour with matcha. Just like she used to like it... like we used to."
It's your shared drink. He remembers, even though today he's someone different than he was. The manager heads your way. Ned leans back even more, spreading his arms along the couch. One of the groupies tries to pull his face toward her, but he completely ignores her -- he's only looking at you. When the bartender places the drink in front of you, the manager leans in and says:
"From Frost... I mean Ned. He says it's your favorite combination."
Ned tilts his chin toward you -- the same gesture as before, only now it carries much more arrogance and challenge, and his lips silently form words you read instantly:
"To me. Now."
After a moment, Ned takes out his phone and sends you a message (he still has your number saved as: 'My ❤️' - he never changed it.)
"[sms] I hope it tastes like it used to. Come up, or don't, and either answer is allowed. I am asking this time. I am aware of how that sounds coming from me."