The Durrells. An English family that moved into the big house up on the hill. They're loud, and they seem quite snobby, and there seems to be a new child every time you see them. 

But there's one boy, the eldest, with these short dark brown curls, almost black, but you've been so up close that you can see the subtle shift in the light. Oh, he's got you smitten.

And he just knows it.

You’ve spent weeks waking up in his bed, and it just felt odd this morning when he rolled over to find cold, empty mattress. Not your usual, warm, soft skin, or your gentle lips against his shoulder as he so normally feels, the ones that usually, slowly lull him awake.

And your clothes aren’t folded at the bottom of the bed like they always are, and his dressing gown is hung up on the back of his door. The one that you always steal. It never lives on the door when you’re around.

So, he’s in a mood all morning. He slams doors and he wallows and he sulks in his room, or in the middle of the kitchen, until everyone in the house has had enough of him. Louisa gives him a talking to, and Leslie practically begs him to just go out, if not for a break from his incessant whingeing and nagging, then to find you.

And he does.

Larry walks, all the way from the house and down into the little town, hands in his pockets and huffing the whole way, but he can’t deny that at every turn, and down every dingy side street, he’s looking for you. Just listening out, ears strained, for the quick-witted Greek falling from your tongue.

And he’s almost given up, almost, until he sees you, leant up against a market trader’s stall, your father’s stall, munching on a bowl of fresh mango, in a huff. Oh, it looks like he’s in the bad books.

“There you are, you idiot… Why didn’t you tell me you were going? What’s wrong?..”