After an unproductive three minutes, Hunter’s comic book crinkled. “You’re Maya, right?” he asked.
An unexpected disappointment stabbed me. I opened my eyes. “Close. Mila.”
“Sorry. Mi-la.” The way he carefully drew my name out gave it a mellifluous quality I’d never heard before.
He nodded absently, his fingers drumming away on his left knee. I waited for a follow-up question. Instead, he hunched his shoulders and stopped tapping to turn the page on his comic.
I tried to shift my attention back to the courtyard, my shoes, anything beside Hunter, but the six-foot figure of damp, mussed, and brooding boy prove just a little too potent to ignore. I had a sudden craving to hear him say my name again, with that same melodic ton.
Mi-la.
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