Sometimes life isn’t as you expected it to be. That’s okay because my life’s pretty good. Books are just books and stories are just stories. They have to stay on paper. And Hunter and I... what cracked universe would we live in if he and I ever got together? In Neverland, maybe. Or the alternate universe where Peter Bishop is originally from. Maybe in another time and place where the Doctor has kept Rose Tyler and another version of himself.
Not here, not now. Not ever.
And I’m okay with that.
I’m such a champion liar, I almost convince myself.
“Nice shirt.”
I’d been scrolling through my ‘Suck it Up’ playlist, waiting for the elevator to come down, looking for something particularly happy. I glance up at the source of the voice.
“Huh?” Shit. Double shit. It’s him. The sex god from next door.
I’ve managed to avoid him all week, knowing that most people start work later than my own seven to three shift, thus missing him both going in to work and coming back home. Now he’s here, in front of me, saying something about my shirt.
Since it’s the weekend, I get to wear whatever I want. Namely, a pair of loose Adidas shorts that aren’t so loose around my ginormous bon-bon, and a nerdy shirt. I have an extensive collection and I’m really proud of them. Synapses firing as they are, my brain is simultaneously dealing with his question, trying to remember which one I’ve worn, while the sound of a pterodactyl shrieking in alarm echoes in my head. I’m not sure I can speak.
“Your shirt. I like it. Most people would say thank you.” Hunter’s grinning at me. The kind of grin a hot guy gives a girl, knowing exactly what kind of effect it has on her. Oh, I hate him. Somebody should tell him jackpot genetics don’t really make us who we are.
Snapping my mouth closed, and making sure I don’t have a look on my face like I just found out Tom Hiddleston knows my name, I don my armour against him – my ability to be snarky.
Which is hard to do when the guy in front of you is as hot as Hunter is, and the plain black tee with that same hoodie and dark jeans look indecent on him instead of casual street-wear. His skull-trim makes him look even more dangerous, total badass, and I’m ashamed that my body is reacting to his good looks. In another dimension and I if didn’t look like I do, I would give him a seductive smile, invite him back to my place for some sweaty hours of sexercise.But my ass is big enough to be seen alone on the Marauder’s Map, and Hunter would never want me. So I’m going to treat him like a friend, and a creeper.
My hands are fists at my sides, and my jaw hurts where I’ve grinded my teeth. I don’t know why I’m so mad. “Okay,” I say, trying to stare through him, enjoying the blurriness of his features without my glasses on. “Do you even know what my shirt’s about?”
“Babe.” So much badass and attitude injected in that one word, it’s a wonder my panties haven’t floated down to my ankles. The guy could be even more badass than Jax Teller and Dean Winchester combined.
He’s not for you. He’s just like my buddies, just like Josh, Tommy, Eli and Alex.
“Don’t call me babe,” I say, trying to be cool and badass like Jo Harvelle. Jo Harvelle who wasn’t flustered or anything when she almost-kissed Dean, and knows her way around a knife and rifle.
Hunter smirks. “Do you like apples?” he asks, mimicking a perfect Southie accent. The man has seen Good Will Hunting. I will not swoon, I will not swoon. Be professional, be a badass. Yeah, right. Rocky’s doing victory laps in my head, ghost-jabbing the air because Hunter likes one of my shirts. I’m pathetic.
But he knows Good Will Hunting.
I grin, hold my hand out for a shake. “I’m Sera. Nice to meet you.” I wiggle my fingers when he takes too long. “Most people shake the other person’s hand when it’s offered to them.”
He looks down from my face to my hand and back up again. Just when I start to feel dumb about the whole thing, he puts us palm to palm and pumps up and down.
“Hunter,” he says, letting me go.
I just held his hand. Fine, for like three point four seconds, but I did it! And I’m not even blushing! Score!
“HUNTER!” A female’s voice rings out from behind us. I don’t cringe, instead, keep my smile on my face. I’m smart; I’m intelligent. He commented on the awesomeness of my shirt. That’s all, he just made my day. But this is reality.
“See you later,” I say, stepping into the elevator once the doors open. I turn my attention back to my iPod, replaying 1D.
Glancing up before the doors close, I look at him, rubbing the back of his neck, staring at his feet. In my head, Hunter would look at me longingly, and maybe even tell me he likes more than just my nerdy shirts. He’d tell me I’m stunning or one of those words that aren’t so overused like beautiful. He’d tell me I’m funny and awesome, and badass and he wants me in his life based on this short encounter.