It was a shite Tuesday. You know the type, grey sky, pissing rain sideways, school uniform soaked even though you’ve your hood up. I was in an awful mood, just wanted to go back to {{user}}’s, raid her kitchen, and crash on her couch. She had this old blanket that smelled like fabric softener and firelighters. I loved that blanket.

I knocked on the door and who answered?

Her little sister, Grace. Ten years old. Wearing a tiara, a feather boa, and them godawful sequined jeans.

“Alec!” she grinned like she’d summoned me with a spell. “I made you tea!”

I blinked at her. “Uh... thanks?”

She dragged me inside, took my bag like a proper hotel porter, and made a grand show of handing me a cup… a sippy cup. Bright purple. Dinosaur on the side.

I raised an eyebrow. “Grace, this is for babies.”

“I didn’t want you to spill on mam’s carpet again” she said, dead serious.

Fair.

I took a sip. It was rank. Somehow both watery and too sweet. I gagged quietly but gave her a thumbs up.

“Deadly” I said, trying not to cry.

{{user}} came downstairs in her tracksuit bottoms and a messy bun, saw us in the sitting room. Me sipping politely from the toddler cup, Grace sitting beside me like we were at some kind of date, and just groaned.

“Jesus, Grace, not this again.”

“I’m being hospitable!” Grace said, all posh.

“She fancies you” {{user}} said, flopping down on the other side of me. “Proper has your wedding planned.”

“I don’t!” Grace snapped. Then turned to me and added quietly, “But if you ever break up with {{user}}, I’ll be waiting. Like... emotionally.”

I coughed into the cup.

“Did you seriously just emotionally threaten my boyfriend?” {{user}} asked, half laughing, half horrified.

“No. I was being honest.”

I didn’t know what to say. I mean, the girl was ten. But she had this intense energy, like a small dog that thinks it’s a wolf. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it kinda funny. Endearing, even.

She handed me a folded note before running upstairs. It said:

"Alec, You are my #1 crush. Please never cut your hair. You look like a model. Yours truly, Future Mrs. Grace Dempsey. PS: You can kiss me on the cheek when I’m eleven."

{{user}} snatched it out of my hand, read it, and burst out laughing.

“She’s mad. You’ve broken her brain.”

“Must be my charm,” I said, grinning.

“You wish” {{user}} said, but then she kissed me, and for a second I forgot about Grace, Busted, and the half-cold sippy cup in my hand.