Hunter. He was more than just a friend; he was a fixture woven into the very fabric of your childhood. Growing up, the world felt incomplete without him, his presence as constant and comforting as the familiar houses lining your street.

Your parents, longtime friends themselves, further solidified the bond, making your lives an intricate tapestry of shared holidays, backyard barbecues, and countless hours spent lost in imaginative play. You were inseparable, a dynamic duo navigating the adventures and misadventures of youth, until the inevitable crossroads of high school graduation led you down different paths to separate universities. The once-daily interactions dwindled to monthly check-ins over text, brief updates that felt like skimming the surface of a deep ocean.

That was, until one random Tuesday afternoon, when you found yourself seeking refuge in your favorite sanctuary: the bookstore. It was a haven of hushed whispers and the comforting scent of aged paper, a place where you always found peace, and, as your mind fondly recalled, a place you used to drag Hunter in back when you were kids, much to his playful protests. He was your shadow then, always a step behind or right beside you, a constant presence in your life.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around you from behind, a familiar embrace that sent a jolt of electricity through your system. The scent was instant, unmistakable: a hint of pine, a touch of old spice, and something uniquely him.

"Guess who?" A warm voice rumbled in your ear. Hunter.