Throughout the week that passed, I tried to get on with life as it had been before, but at every turn Book Boy was there. He was relentless. He peppered every waking hour with questions, whether it was while I worked at the bar or when I relaxed at home. I'd tried to resist at first, but the effort it took to ignore his inquisition soon outweighed the irritation of having to answer. In the past week, I'd spoken more about myself than I had in the past four years, which was why it didn't surprise me when he exited his front door at the same time as I left mine, and fell in step beside me. 

"Morning," he said cheerfully as he shoved his hands in his coat pockets. Today he was in a thin leather jacket, barely thick enough to keep the wintery chill at bay. He never seemed to be dressed for the weather.

I took his brief moment of silence as an opportunity to finally ask some questions of my own. Despite weeks of conversation, he was still a stranger to me.

"How come you moved here?"

He didn't stutter at my abrupt tone.

"Work."

"What do you do?"

After a short pause he smirked and said, "freelance."

"Like a writer?" I asked as I thought of the black book he always carried around. The blank one I hadn't been able to forget about. It was currently stuffed in his back pocket, bobbing side to side as he walked.

"Yes, like a writer."

"Why did you move to George's Hill?"

"Why not?" He tilted his head slightly.

"Well, you're not the usual resident. People like you live in Fairfield or Ilford or that seaside place with all the bunting and weekend markets."

I thought of the regal mansions that lined the streets of Fairfield and the Edwardian houses of Ilford. They were built for people with money decades ago, and they'd kept their purpose to this day.

"People like me." He flashed a crooked smile as he glanced down at me, the piercing blue all the more vivid against his dark hair and pale skin.

"Where do people like you usually live?" he asked with intent.

"George's hill."

"No, I don't think so," he countered without skipping a beat. "You live there now, but you don't fit there."

"So, what, we talk a handful of times and now you think you know me?" I could hear the hypocrisy in my voice, but I didn't care.

"I'm getting there," he said with a knowing smile. Unapologetically smug.

"The only thing people know about me is that I'm difficult, mean, scary," I drawled, bitterness dripping from my voice. The images of people like the cashier from the supermarket flashed through my memory. Each one looking at me like one glance could turn them to stone, or one touch would taint them somehow.

"Is that what you want them to think?" he pondered in a tone that was sudden but not unkind. There was no real emotion behind it at all, like to him it was just a simple question. Not one that had the potential to bring a deluge of emotional turmoil.

For a second, I didn't know how to reply. The question hung in the air between us, knocking me off guard. In that moment, I felt myself get trapped in his gaze. Drowning in the endless blue looking back at me. I felt my insides squirm, like he could see through me somehow. Right to my core where all my darkness festered.

I blinked once and the spell ended just as quickly as it had come. Like taking steps through treacle, thoughts slowly returned to my addled mind.

"No," I replied, but the uncertainty in my voice made it sound like a question.

I'd never really thought about how I wanted to present myself to the world. All I knew was that I didn't want to be the person I had been before. Since that day I hadn't stopped to look in the mirror and ask whether the persona I'd built up was a fair representation of who I was. To me it was like a suit of armour. As long as it protected me, I couldn't care less what it looked like on the outside. At least that was how I'd thought before Book Boy had asked me.

We fell into silence as we wound through town. We'd transitioned from the dodgy area we lived in, to the metropolitan buzz of the city centre. Tall sandstone buildings loomed over wide slate paved streets. Like most cities in this part of the world, the streets didn't exist in blocks but instead curved around each other. Warrens of side streets intersected the main roads. Retrospective additions as history tried to correct a mistake it had made. It wasn't a city that been planned and plotted. It was one born of necessity. Majestic buildings had been erected to meet the needs of trade and industry with no second thoughts on how the city would grow later.

We meandered through the hustle and bustle. Envious eyes dripped over Book Boy's tall frame as he walked by oblivious.

"What makes you think I belonged in Fairfield, or Ilford?" he asked.

The question caught me by surprise. Something he was fast becoming good at. Throughout the week we had talked about lots of things, and they had always revolved around my opinions, but they were about things like hobbies and interests. He'd never once asked what I thought about him, even though I'd made plenty of statements he could have interrogated me about.

I looked at him. He was dressed as he always was. It was what I'd always called effortlessly stylish. He didn't wear brands or anything that stood out in particular, but he always looked good. Today he had a combination of a pale grey shirt and black jeans under his leather jacket.

"You just look like you do." I didn't want to elaborate because there was part of me that didn't want to look at Book Boy for longer than I had to. I trusted that side of me more than the other that didn't want to tear my eyes away.

"Lots of people dress like this."

"Well, they don't," I scoffed, because plenty of people wore similar clothes but they never looked as good as he did. I continued as we walked in step together, "but it's more than that. It's the way you act."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not really." He looked at me, waiting. "But you'll make me anyway." I sighed.

"For starters, you're a freelancer. People who live in George's Hill don't have the luxury of doing anything freelance. Let alone writing. You have the latest phone, although that doesn't really seem to mean anything to you. Those things alone point to the fact you clearly have money. Although, it doesn't seem to occur to you that others around you might not."

"What makes you think that?" he seemed concerned, or was it hurt? Either way it was a look in his eyes I hadn't seen before.

"You keep ordering soda or coffee, but then you hardly ever drink it."

"You said I had to if I wanted the sweets." He sounded wounded, like I'd somehow set him up to fail.

"But that's the point. You didn't think twice about throwing money away just to get a few bowls of sweets. You could have just walked around the corner and bought a bag of them for a fifth of the price."

His plush lips pressed into a thin line as he frowned in thought.

"You're more observant than I thought."

"Gee, thanks." My eyes rolled on reflex.

"You talk like you've had experience. Of people like me."

"I've served a million of you."

"I doubt that," he snorted with a cocky grin. The crooked kind that flashed his perfect white teeth. "But it's more than that."

"I grew up surrounded by people like you. I used to be just like you. Some prissy Fairfield princess completely oblivious to everything."

I sneered when I thought of my old life. How vapid and conceited it had been.

"Your family live there?" Genuine curiosity was back in his voice. I could hear the inflection raising its tenor slightly. It was the same sound everyone made when they realised I grew up here. Whether the surprise came from my lack of northern accent, or the fact I never mentioned my family, the conversation always ended the same way. Abruptly.

"My family are here," I said I walked into the bar and saw the three familiar faces looking over. I may have kept my distance, but in my own dysfunctional way Kelly, Callum and Emma were like family to me. More than my old one had ever been.

Book Boy followed behind me. We both reached to stop the door from slamming as the wind outside caught it.

Our hands collided, his covering mine as I grasped the brass handle. Warmth radiated across my hand, hot and tingly. With it came a short sharp zap, like a static fuelled electric shock. I attributed it to the cheap polyester jumper I was wearing. The temperature outside had finally dropped low enough to warrant an extra layer.

Book Boy dropped his hand to his side.

"Jesus, what are you, part radiator?" I teased, but it fell flat. My hand still felt warm from where we'd touched.

He cast a distracted glance down at his hand, flexing it like I did when I had pins and needles.

"What's up?" I asked as I started to tie my hair up, preparing for work.

It took a moment or two before he shook his head and looked at me.

"Nothing," he said in a tone that definitely meant there was something. "I have to go," he continued in a brusque voice. His eyebrows knitted together as he glowered at his hand. His eyes unseeing as he stood deep in thought.

After a second or two, he turned on his heel and left the way he'd come. I watched, puzzled, as he shoved his hands back into his pockets and stalked back up the street. His shoulders rolled as he walked with purpose, like a panther stalking its prey.

I frowned as I sauntered into the bar, shrugging off my thick winter coat.

My hand had started to cool back to the icy temperature it usually was. Whether it was bad circulation or my aversion to wearing gloves, I always seemed to have cold hands. Emma often quoted the old saying 'cold hands, warm heart'. Somehow reasoning that deep down I was all fuzzy and light despite my cool exterior.

I had a different point of view. I thought it was much more likely whatever spell was cast four years ago —the one that turned my heart to ice and stone— had slowly spread through me. Seeping from its starting point until each extremity was just as cold. I imagined myself, one day, frozen solid. That thought would scare most people, but —ever the optimist— I just thought at least nothing could penetrate ice.

"What's up with Book Boy?" Emma asked as I passed her. I could hear the concern in her voice.

"No idea," I replied with a shrug. The memory of that intrusive feeling when our eyes met flickered in my head, and with it came the same uncomfortable flash of vulnerability and uncertainty. I hadn't felt that way in so long that now it felt foreign. Unwelcome. At the same time, there was something about that feeling that was exhilarating. An unexpected reprieve from the mundane numbness I usually felt.