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Holy hell he looks hot in a suit.
Whatever this little crush she thinks she might have on Alex is, it is not helping seeing him all dressed up and wearing a bow tie. Because really, how does a seventeen year old get away with looking that good in a tux? It’s just not fair.
.
Sometimes she thinks he might like her back.
.
Their first or second day in Malta they’d been sitting outside a bar on one of Valletta’s stepped streets, drinking beer, and she’d told him about her first hack, aged 6, when she’d woken up the entire house playing heavy metal music on every screen and device, and then locked them all so that no-one could turn the music off.
“The whole house?”
“Well there is no point if you don’t commit.”
He laughs again. “You’re incredible, you know?”
And she believes it. She really believes it when he looks at her like that with his Alex grin. And then he’s leaning in and his hand is close to hers and she almost thinks he’s going to reach for her hand and they’re smiling at each other and then… they’re back to sipping their beers and Tom’s back at the table. But something, something was there. Or maybe she just imagined it all.
.
She’s in that horrible yellow uniform and she’s terrified and she’s come back to the shitty school for what? For him apparently.
“You’re not the real Kyra. The real Kyra’s special.”
When was the last time anyone called her special? Alex brushes off the comment later but she wonders if he might have meant it. Maybe just a little bit? Or maybe she just hopes he did.
.
They’re watching Tom attempt to steer a gondola in Italy, arms flailing, as both he and the gondola rock so violently it’s a wonder he hasn’t injured anyone else it the canal, let alone fallen in, and they’re laughing so hard they can barely speak, holding onto each other for support and it feels so very natural and easy.
And then for the next day or so all she or Alex need to do is make a vague flailing gesture at each other and they’ve collapsed again into laughter while Tom or Jack, or sometimes both, roll their eyes at each other. But she likes that they have this connection, almost as much as she likes the fact that, despite everything, they can still find something to laugh about.
.
That look of utter relief he gives her when she meets him in the underground car park running from Cray. She loves the sound of her name on his lips.
“Kyra!”
.
He lets her sleep on his shoulder for the entire flight back from Berlin. Kyra’s always been good at sleeping on planes – trained from a young age that the best way to pass the long distance flights to Singapore or Kiev or London is to sleep. And even though the tiny economy class seats on their EasyJet plane aren’t quite what she’s used to (her parents preferred their private jets or, at a pinch, first class on a commercial plane) she still finds herself drifting off to sleep as the plane starts to taxi down the runway.
Only this time when she wakes up as they land in London Gatwick she finds she’s been resting on Alex’s surprisingly comfortable shoulder for the last two hours, head tucked into the little alcove between his neck and chin.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Sleeping on you – that can’t have been comfortable.”
And he grins at her. “I didn’t mind. You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to disturb you.”
She gives him a shy half smile, unsure of what to make of this.
.
Then he’s smiling up at her from the stage and she’s pretty sure Mercutio is supposed to be delivering a line right now, but she can’t bring herself to do anything but smile back.
.
The three of them get drunk and silly on prosecco in Venice when Jack’s gone back to the flat one evening and they are wandering back to their Airbnb when they stumble upon Campo San Giacomo and find it full of couples dancing the tango, music ringing out from loudspeakers at one end of the square. Tom wants to film and so she and Alex sit at a bar on the edge of the square and chat and drink while Tom films.
“Want to give him something really funny to film?” he asks.
“Always. What did you have in mind?”
He stands up and holds out his hand to her and she chokes on her Coca Cola. “You are joking.”
“What?”
“Can you dance the- well, whatever this is?”
“Tango, and absolutely not. That’s why it’s great!” he’s grinning more widely.
“No, no, no. I don’t dance.” Not strictly true. She’s had lessons. She’s tried to forget them.
“Kyraaaa…” he’s whining jokily now and she perfectly happy to ignore him until; “don’t reject me”.
Oh God.
And somehow they end up stumbling slightly on the cobbled square doing a cartoon version of a tango. His arms are around her as they dance in front of Tom who’s sighing despairingly at their antics, and Alex is grinning down at her as he trips about. He’s right, he’s a terrible dancer.
.
Then there’s the smile he gives her when she gives him the lock pick. She’s nervous and she absolutely hates the feeling. Hands sweating, not quite able to meet his eyes, terrified she’s over read their relationship and that this is a bad idea.
But he smiles at her and once again she thinks… Maybe?