I was seven. Maybe six and a half—I never could keep track of the birthdays straight. Mom dragged me to some fancy house on the hill because her "client" needed a closet redesign or a makeup consultation or whatever rich ladies paid her to do. I remember the driveway was longer than our whole apartment building, I saw smooth black asphalts that made my sneakers squeak like they were embarrassed to be there.
I was starving. Mom had forgotten breakfast again, she was too busy curling her hair and yelling at me to "sit still and look pretty." So when the grown-ups disappeared into the sitting room with their coffee and swatches, I slipped away.
The kitchen was massive, all white marble and stainless steel that smelled like lemons and vanilla. I found a box of granola bars in the pantry—chocolate Chip flavour, the good kind, and ripped one open with my teeth without thinking. I knew I'd get in trouble. I knew Mom will scold me and ground me when we reached home. I didn't care. Hunger won.
I was halfway through the bar, they were crumbs on my shirt, when a voice came from the doorway.
"What are you doing?"
I froze and Turned my head slowly, It wasn't Mom or Xander.
He was small, smaller than me, probably. His black hair sticking up in every direction, his braces glinted when he grinned. Skinny arms crossed like he was trying to look tough. But his eyes were big and curious, not mean.
I rolled my eyes hard the way mom did when Dad pissed her off.
"What does it look like? I'm eating."
He laughed loudly, sudden, the kind of laugh that echoed off the marble. "You just walked into a stranger's house and stole food?"
"It's not stealing if it's in the pantry." I took another defiant bite. "And I'm not a stranger. My mom's here. Talking to your mom. About… lipsticks or something."
He stepped closer, still grinning. "You're the girl from the boutique. The one who always wears the sparkly headbands."
I narrowed my eyes. "How do you know that?"
"I've seen you. You come in with your mom sometimes. You stare at the mannequins a lot."
I felt my cheeks heat. "Whatever. You're the rich kid with the braces."
He laughed again, harder this time, and I hated how much I liked the sound. It was stupid. He was stupid. But he smelled good. Like clean laundry and something sharp, like cedar or mint or whatever fancy soap rich people used. I noticed it even then. I didn't know why it mattered. It just did.
"Can we play in your room?" I asked suddenly. The words came out before I could stop them.
He blinked. "My room?"
"Yeah. Unless you're scared I'll steal your toys too."
He considered me for a second, like he was deciding whether I was worth the trouble, then shrugged. "Fine. But if you break anything, my mom's gonna freak."
I followed him up the stairs, the granola bars were still in my hand, and squeezed it in my hands letting it's crumbs trail me on the . His room was huge, blue walls, a bed bigger than mine, shelves full of Lego sets and comic books. No pink. No princess crap. Just boy stuff. I liked it immediately.
He sat on the floor, pulled out a box of action figures. "You can be the bad guy."
I dropped to my knees across from him. "Why do I have to be the bad guy?"
"Because you already stole my food. You're halfway there."
I smirked. "Fine. But my bad guy wins."
We played for what felt like hours. I made his hero lose every fight, I knocked him over, stole his weapons, taunted him mercilessly.
"You're so bad at this," I said when his guy "died" for the third time. "Your guy sucks."
He shoved my shoulder, light, playful. "You're cheating."
"I'm winning."
He glared, but his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. "You're annoying."
"You're short."
"I'm not short. You're just tall for a girl."
I leaned in close, close enough to smell that clean-laundry-cedar scent again, and whispered, "I bet you cry when you lose."
He shoved me again; harder this time. "I don't cry."
I laughed. "Bet you do."
He tackled me. Kid roughhousing. We rolled across the carpet, me pinning him, him flipping me over, both of us laughing until our sides hurt. His braces caught the light when he grinned down at me. I stared up at him, his hair messier than before, his cheeks turned pink and felt something strange twist in my stomach. Not butterflies. Something sharper. Hotter. I didn't know what it was. I just knew I liked it.
Then the door opened.
His mom stood there—tall, perfect hair, designer yoga pants—looking at us like we were feral animals.
"Xander. What is going on?"
He scrambled off me. "We're just playing, Mom."
Her eyes flicked to me. To the granola crumbs on my shirt. To the mess on the floor. Her mouth tightened.
"Holly, right?" she said, voice sweet in that fake way adults use when they don't like you. "Your mom's looking for you."
I stood slowly. Brushed off my knees. Met her eyes without flinching.
"Okay Ma'am."
She didn't move right away. Just stared—like she was trying to decide if I was a problem she needed to solve.
Xander looked between us, confused. "Mom?"
"Holly go Downstairs. Now."
I didn't look back at him. But I felt his eyes on me the whole way down the stairs.
Later, in the car, Mom sighed. "You can't just go raiding people's kitchens, Hol. And you can't roughhouse like that. Mrs. Hale doesn't like wild girls."
I stared out the window. "I'm not wild. I'm hungry."
She laughed "You're something, baby."
I didn't answer her, I looked straight ahead at traffic.
But I kept thinking about the way he smelled.
The way he laughed when I taunted him.
The way he didn't back down even when I pinned him.
I didn't know it then, but that was the day I started liking Xander Hale.
The annoying, taunting, can't-stop-thinking-about-you kind.
The kind that would grow up to ruin me.
And I'd spend the next eleven years pretending it didn't exist.
So seeing him in the hallway.
Yeah that was like déjà vu