The sound of rain tapping gently against the café windows filled the comfortable silence between you and Mark. It had been over a decade since you’d last seen him—properly, at least. The occasional Christmas card, sure. A wedding or two in your overlapping family circles, yes. But this was different. Now, here you were, sharing a small table, two mugs of coffee growing cold, and years of unspoken things sitting between you.

“You still stir your tea with a knife,” he said suddenly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You looked down and laughed, catching the silver butter knife in your hand. “Old habits. You still notice everything.”

“And you still hate the froth on cappuccinos,” he added, watching as you wiped it off the top with a napkin. “Some things never change.”

“But we have,” you said, quieter this time. And it was true. Gone was the lanky, awkward boy with too-large sweaters and paperbacks always sticking out of his coat pockets. He was broader now. His hair a bit more tamed, his manner as polite and thoughtful as ever—but with a quiet confidence you didn’t remember. And he was looking at you like he saw something familiar, something he’d missed.

“Do you remember the summer we tried to build a treehouse and you insisted it needed curtains?” he asked with a soft chuckle.

“Yes. And you let me steal your mum’s old ones because you said I had good taste.” You smiled at the memory, eyes warming.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table now. “You did. You still do.”

The rain slowed to a drizzle as the conversation drifted from childhood memories to more recent things—your job, his firm, the places you’d both been, the people who had come and gone. But the warmth between you hadn’t gone anywhere. It had only changed shape.

As you reached for your coat, ready to leave, he stopped you.

“Would it be terribly forward of me,” he said, clearing his throat, “to ask if you’d like to see that treehouse again?”