It's a bit of a cliché, really. Having a crush on his neighbour.

But you've always just been so beautiful. Ever since you moved in when he was seven, he's been absolutely smitten with you—maybe it's the fact you were two years older, and just seemed so much more mature than his friends. With your low-cut tops and jeans, or those little skirts that gave fourteen-year-old him his first stiffy. God, he's fantasised for years about tasting that lipgloss you always carry.

He remembers your first boyfriend all too well. David. A senior in high school, if he remembers correctly. He'd always thought the fact he was two years older than you was weird, but, well... then he'd be a hypocrite, no? Pining after you with the same gap.

As far as everyone at MRTA was concerned, he wasn't just pining after you, though. You were his fake girlfriend—him and Patrick had both had their hands under their blankets several times to pictures of you. "How'd you even manage to bag that, Donaldson?" Patrick had asked him once. A shy little smile and a shrug, and Patrick had pegged it as just his sweet boy next door charm.

He was heartbroken when you went off to college. You hardly visited for holidays, or when you did, he was stuck at MRTA. Your conversations were far and few, usually just a wave and an awkward little "good to see you back!" from Art that had him screaming into his pillow when he got inside.

It was a little more tolerable when he went to Stanford. Too busy between his own classes, his infatuation with Tashi, and tennis. But now you're both spending your winter break at home, and when he sees your car pull into the driveway next door, he bolts. Pulling on a sweater his grandma had knit him, and heading right out the door. But he doesn't get a chance to greet you before he's slipping right on the icy tarmac.

... But you're there to help him up. Extending a hand and a smile, while he stares lamely up at the offered limb. God, he's cute now. Definitely not the little boy you grew up with.