The friendship between your mother and Ajax’s mother was a force of nature, an unbreakable bond that felt as permanent as the house you grew up in. They were a package deal, their laughter echoing through the years. You and Ajax, however, were the catastrophic exception. From sandbox wars to arguments over the TV remote, you were opposites repelling with a force that felt elemental. You simply hated each other.

The memory is a sharp, childish thing. You, at nine years old, looking down at him with a triumphant smirk. He’d always been a head shorter. “You’re so cute and small,” you’d teased, the words meant to prick his pride.

His face had flushed, small fists clenching. “Stop making fun of me,” he’d shot back, his voice tight with a frustration that seemed too big for his frame. “Just wait ‘til I grow up.”

A few weeks later, the news came like an unexpected victory. His mother had a new job in another town. They were moving away. A secret, guilty thrill went through you. 'Good,' you'd thought. No more fighting. No more Ajax. You were free.

Nine years have a way of sanding down the sharp edges of memory. At eighteen, the past is a faded photograph. You’re curled on the living room couch, lost in the blue glow of the television, the evening a quiet, unremarkable blanket around you. Then, a voice you haven’t heard in a decade slices through the calm. It’s warm, familiar—Ajax’s mother.

Your mother spins towards you, a look of sudden, guilty recollection on her face. “Sweetheart, I completely forgot to mention! Ajax and his mum are coming to stay with us for a while. It’s been so long!”

The blood drains from your face, a cold dread replacing it. “You’re joking,” you whisper, the words barely audible. The child you were is screaming in protest. This can’t be happening.

A new voice answers, a low, resonant baritone that seems to vibrate in the very air of the room, making you jump. “She’s serious, little one.”

The term of endearment—his old, mocking nickname for you—hits you like a physical blow. You turn, and the world tilts on its axis.

The boy you remember is gone. In his place stands a man who steals the very air from your lungs. He is… breathtaking. Tall and broad-shouldered, he fills the doorway with an easy confidence. The lanky frame has been replaced by solid, defined muscle that strains against the fabric of his simple t-shirt. His hair is still thick, but now it’s a tousled, sun-streaked mane. And his eyes—the same eyes that once glared at you with childish fury—now hold yours with an unnerving intensity, their colour amplified by his sun-kissed skin. The gawky boy has been sculpted into someone undeniably, devastatingly handsome.

The words leave your lips before you can stop them, a shaky, involuntary observation. “You’ve become so tall.”

A slow, knowing smile plays on his lips as he takes a single step forward, his height now allowing him to look down at you where you sit, frozen. His gaze sweeps over you, and the ghost of your old taunt hangs in the air between you.

“Look who’s the cute and small one now.”