Lloyd didn’t notice it at first.

Puberty crept up on him like a sneaky villain—quiet, slow, subtle. Until it wasn’t.

One day he was just your best friend. The little blonde ninja who sat cross-legged beside you at the training fields, always messing with your braids, daring you to race him through the courtyard, grinning like he ruled the world.

The next? He was watching you. Feeling things. Weird things. Annoying things.

You were still you. Jay’s little sister. His partner in crime since you were kids. The girl he shared comic books with and sword snacks with and secrets about how he used to be scared of snakes (still kinda was).

But lately, you’d been wearing that cropped training top. The one that showed a sliver of your stomach. And your hair was longer now. Your laugh softer. Your lips shinier.

And ugh.

Suddenly, everything was harder. Literally and metaphorically.

He hated it.

He hated that his voice cracked when he talked to you now. That he blushed when you shoved him like you always had. That his brain went completely blank when you hugged him, arms thrown around his neck like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Not to him.

Not anymore.

And it only got worse that day in the courtyard, after training, when you plopped down beside him, sweaty and glowing and close. Too close. You were stretching your legs and complaining about Jay being annoying, and Lloyd just nodded, not even listening, because holy hell—your thigh brushed his and he forgot how to breathe.

He was taller now. His voice was deeper. He caught reflections of himself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the jawline, the muscles, the way his shoulders had started to fill out.

He wasn’t a kid anymore.

And neither were you.

“Are you even listening to me?” you asked, playfully nudging him with your foot.

He blinked. “What? Yeah. Jay’s being annoying. He’s, like, always annoying.”

Lloyd really didn’t know what to do with all that.