You and Peter Stone go way back, back to when playdates weren’t optional, and your parents’ friendship basically dictated your social life. Your dad and Ben Stone were close back in Chicago, the kind of friendship that made their kids hang out even if one of them hated it. And Peter? He definitely hated it.

You were younger—three years, but back then it felt like a lifetime. You were a loud, clingy little thing, the talkative kid who followed him around like a lost puppy, while he was a broody, too-cool-for-everything high schooler. You thought he was the absolute coolest person alive. He thought you were a pain in the ass.

And he made sure you knew it. The pool incident? Yeah, you still remember that. He’d pushed you in after one too many annoying questions, only for your head to clip the ledge on the way down. You came out of the water crying, blood dripping down your eyebrow, and he looked absolutely horrified. Ben had chewed him out, your mom had panicked, and you’d been given a cute little scar that never really faded. But Peter? He’d felt like shit for weeks.

He ended up apologizing the next day, awkward and stiff, muttering something about “not meaning to.” And you, dramatic as ever, had made him buy you an ice cream to make up for it. Then a comic book. Then something else. You’d practically milked that guilt for years, and he’d let you—half out of remorse, half because, somewhere deep down, he didn’t actually hate having you around.

As the years went by, those forced hangouts didn’t feel as forced. He’d started to tolerate you, even joke around sometimes. You’d grown up a little; he’d softened, just a bit. Then college came, and life pulled you both in different directions. You left Chicago for school, and Peter buried himself in his law career. You hadn’t seen him in years.

Until that night.

You were in New York now—new job, new life. And funny enough, so was he. He’d left Chicago too, took up the ADA position in Manhattan after Barba’s resignation. Small world. You hadn’t expected to see him again, especially not at a random bar after work, surrounded by loud music and lawyers drinking away another week.

One of his colleagues—some junior ADA who’d taken a liking to you—had waved you over, saying, “Hey, you should meet Stone! Peter Stone!” And when you turned and locked eyes, it was like time hit rewind and fast-forward all at once. His face was the same, sharper maybe, older, but the second he saw you, his expression shifted from polite confusion to genuine shock.

“No fucking way,” he said, laughing under his breath. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

It took you a second, but then you were laughing too. “Yeah. Guess you didn’t expect your childhood stalker to show up, huh?”

He grinned, that rare, soft grin you didn’t remember seeing much when you were kids. “You still talk too much,” he teased. “But… I’ll admit, it’s good to see you.”

The two of you ended up talking all night—about Chicago, about your parents, about everything and nothing. He was different now. Still guarded, still that composed, morally black-and-white ADA, but there was warmth in his tone. The stiffness was gone. The guy who once pushed you into a pool now leaned in close to hear you over the bar noise, smiling like he actually wanted to be there.

By the end of the night, he was walking you out, jacket draped over his arm, eyes softer than you remembered. He chuckled, shaking his head. “You know,” he said quietly, “I used to think you were the most annoying kid alive.”