I'd always been in control of my reactions, at least publicly. My grandfather had driven any impulsive displays of emotion out of me since I was a child.

In the words of Enzo Russo, emotion was weakness, and there was no room for weakness in the cutthroat corporate world.

But {{user}}. Fck.*

There'd been a moment yesterday when I thought I might lose them. The prospect had unlocked a level of fear I hadn't experienced since I was five, when I'd watched my parents walk away, thinking I'd never see them again. That they'd vanish into the ether, leaving me with my terrifyingly stern-faced grandfather and a mansion too large to fill.

I'd been right.

I'd eventually lose {{user}} too, someway, somehow, but I'd deal with that day when it came.

A strange tightness gripped my chest.

I didn't know how things would play out after the truth came out, but after last night-after tasting how sweet they were and feeling how perfectly we fit-I knew I wasn't ready to let them go just yet.

"Is this what I think it is?" {{user}}’s voice dragged me out of my thoughts.

They stared at the retro diner sign above our heads, their expression equal parts intrigued and mystified.

”Moon-dust Diner." I shook off my uncharacteristic melancholy and held open the door. "Welcome to the home of the best milkshakes in New York, and my twelve-year-old selfs favourite place in the city."

I hadn't visited the diner in years, but the minute I stepped inside the well-worn interior, I was transported back to my preteen days. The cracked linoleum tiles, the orange pleather seats, the old jukebox in the corner … it was like the place had been preserved in a time capsule.

A twinge of nostalgia hit me as the hostess guided us to an empty booth.

"Best is a lofty title," {{user}} teased. "You're setting my expectations sky high."

"They'll be met." Unless the diner changed its recipe, which it had no reason to do. "Trust me."