Page 7 of Crossed Paths
I shake my head, trying not to smile too much as we leave Mrs Higgins and her stubborn dog behind. But I can feel it—something shifting, easing.
“Sorry,” Hunter says eventually, still catching his breath. “We were two little twerps back then.”
“Twerps is generous.”
He grins, a bit sheepish. “Yeah, well… Peter was the ringleader. I just supplied the chaos.”
I arch a brow at him. “You supplied the decibels, the muddy footprints on the stairs, and the mysterious smell in the airing cupboard that Mum never got to the bottom of.”
“Ah,” he says, mock-serious. “That may have been a science experiment gone wrong.”
I laugh, just under my breath. He notices.
His voice softens slightly. “So, honestly... what did you think of me? Back then.”
I glance at him. “You mean aside from thinking you were the reason my bookmark was always on the wrong page?”
“Yeah. That part I remember. I mean... the rest of it. You know, when we weren’t trying to out-annoy each other.”
I look ahead for a moment, then back at him. “You were loud. Always underfoot. Always leaving biscuit crumbs on the sofa.”
“And...?”
“And kind,” I say finally, after a beat. “Brighter than you let on. Funny, even if you were also infuriating.”
That slows his steps just a little. He doesn’t say anything right away.
I bump his arm gently with mine. “Don’t get smug. It’s just nostalgia.”
But he looks at me with that quiet smile—the one that doesn’t ask for anything, just... stays.
“Still,” he says. “I’ll take it.”
We walk in silence for a few more steps, boots crunching over gravel, the group still ahead but far enough that their voices blur into birdsong.
Then he glances at me again. “What about when we got older?”
I shoot him a look. “Are you fishing?”
He lifts his hands innocently. “Nope. Just asking.”
“Uh-huh.”
But I don’t answer.
Instead, I narrow my eyes and flick the question right back at him. “Alright then—what didyouthink ofme, as we got older?”
He hesitates, and for a second, I think he’s going to deflect, maybe crack a joke about my GCSE revision schedule or the time I dyed my hair black and regretted it immediately.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he says, quietly, “You were smart. And fierce. And so bloody beautiful it hurt to look at you sometimes.”
I stop walking.
Just for a second. Just long enough for the air to leave my lungs.
My heart kicks against my ribs. There’s a flutter—no, a full-on riot—of butterflies in my stomach. Heat floods my face, and I don’t know if I want to run or laugh or kiss him or slap him.
