I shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, dragging my heels behind Mum as we made our way across the street. The late afternoon sun dipped behind the clouds, casting everything in that greyish English light that made everything feel twice as dull.

“They’re from America, Harry,” Mum chirped, a little too chipper for my taste. “You could be a bit welcoming, yeah?”

I rolled my eyes, barely hiding it. “Why? So they can try to rename chips as ‘fries’ and ruin the neighborhood one misused vowel at a time?”

“Don’t be cheeky,” she warned, giving me that look — the one that meant ‘be polite or I’ll make you regret it’.

I sighed, shifting my weight from foot to foot as we stepped onto the new neighbors’ drive. A moving truck was still halfway unpacked, boxes everywhere. Everything smelled like cardboard and new paint. The door creaked open and I spotted someone — your silhouette — standing behind the screen.

You.

You were probably around my age, leaning against the doorway like you didn’t really want to be here either. You wore that kind of blank expression, the kind Americans always had in those reality shows my sister Gemma loved watching. Like the world owed you something. Like we were the aliens here.

Mum pushed me forward. “Go on, say hello.”

I forced a half-hearted smile, looking you up and down, trying not to grimace. “Hey,” I muttered. “Welcome to, uh… Holmes Chapel.”

Not exactly rolling out the red carpet, but whatever. I shifted awkwardly, my eyes flicking back to Mum chatting up your parents. I cleared my throat. “So… you actually chose to move here? From, like, California or wherever?”

I let the sarcasm drip, just a bit. Because between the accent I could already hear forming in your throat and the way you were sizing me up, I could tell — this was gonna be interesting.

And probably a nightmare.