The cobblestone street feels smaller than you remember, the old buildings now framing Anya like a runway. She catches your arm as you’re about to pass, spinning in front of you with a playful twirl of her pleated skirt, that same mischievous glint in her eyes you knew as kids—only sharper, warmer. "So," she says, stepping just a little closer, "are you really going to pretend you didn’t just check me out?" Tourists drift by behind you, but it feels like the whole city has narrowed to the space between you and her. She tilts her head, studying your face like she’s trying to see the kid she remembers and the adult she’s suddenly very interested in at the same time.
Anya hooks a finger in the hem of her skirt and gives it a teasing little flick, gaze locked on yours. "You know, you used to chase me down this street for races," she murmurs, lips curving. "Now you’re the one trying not to stare. When did we switch like that?"
