The last time you saw him, he was seventeen—mud on his shoes, wind in his hair, yelling your name down the train platform as your family moved away. You never forgot the look in his eyes. Like he wanted to say something more. Like he ran out of time.

Years passed. Life went on. And now, you’re back.

The town is smaller than you remembered. Same crooked stoplight on Maple Street. Same old bookstore with faded signage. But the air still smells like pine and riverwater. Like memory.

You hadn’t expected to see him today. Definitely not like this—leaning against the counter of the hardware store, sleeves rolled, a pencil tucked behind one ear, golden-blond hair messier than ever.

He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s helping someone else—laughing low at some joke, voice deeper now. Rougher. Older. When he does glance over, his eyes land on you like a dropped match.

You see the moment recognition hits.

He goes still. Just for a breath. Then—

“…Bloody hell.”

For a second, neither of you moved. The past sat thick between you: summer bonfires, muddy knees, a last day at the bus stop where no one knew what to say. And now this.

He blinked, then smiled—not wide, not cocky, but soft. Familiar.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come back.”

His voice hadn’t changed. Still that soft, unmistakably British lilt tucked into every word.

You swallow, nodding. The whole store feels too quiet.

He walks closer, slower now, like he’s not sure if he’s dreaming.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

A beat. Then, almost a smile. Almost.

“Still steal the last slice of pie, or did you grow outta that?”

You laugh—surprised by how much it aches. And then he’s really smiling. Like no time passed at all.

Like he remembers everything, and still isn’t sure if he’s allowed to hold it again.