The first time Emily sees him on her bus she gets off at the next stop. She can't sit there and wonder whether he will recognize her for half an hour journey it'll be. She recognized him instantly obviously her breath catching in her throat from the second she saw his six foot one frame duck to make it through the door. She pushed past him to get off the bus her eyes cast downwards and wisps of her brown hair fall into her face masking her but as she sees him sit down as the bus drives off leaving her alone at the bus stop she feels something inside of her cracks. He didn't recognize her.
It was two more weeks until she saw him again on that same bus at 9:33 in the morning when he got on at the same stop that Emily had gotten off at last time. It's not as if she cared or remembered. The bus is busy and all of the pairs of seats have at least one person as sitting in it she looks down praying that he won't sit next to her even though deep down she wants him to. He walks closer before sitting only a row in front of her on the other side of the bus. She refuses to look at him but he commands the seat with ease and she can hear the tittering of the blonde girl whose sitting next to him. He shifts and she can see her. Slim, model pretty with blonde hair (much like her own before she dyed it in an attempt to forget about everything), which is layered in perfect curls over her white top. She tears her glance away as though she's been burnt and busies herself with ferreting in her bag for something but she's not quite sure what. The half an hour passes slowly and she taps her French manicured fingers against window impatiently by the time the bus reaches its last few stops. The breeze, which hits her as she exits the bus, messes up her carefully styled and braided hair but she doesn't care. Indeed she finds it oddly invigorating, almost enough to hide her indignation about the girl who gets off at the same stop a scrap of paper with his number on it clutched in between crimson red nails which are only a few shades darker than the crimson of her cheeks.
The next week she doesn't expect to see him but she isn't surprised by his presence and when like before he walks through the aisle looking for somewhere to sit she doesn't duck her head and instead sits up tall. He doesn't notice her and walks past her and lounges in the last row of the bus like the cool kids at her prep school used to do. She wants to look back at him. She wants to say something, anything but she doesn't. She keeps her gaze trained forwards and the nails in her left hand drag against the back of her right hand whenever she considers doing anything but sitting up straight with perfect posture formed from years of ballet and dance. She gets off all to happily, conscious of a pair of eyes digging into her back.
He sits in the pair of seats to your right and she shoots him sidelong glances for the next three stops. She knows it's not particularly subtle of her but she can't help in and when a large man even by his standard but it's all fat and pudge in contrast to his lean muscular physique, every inch sculptured muscle formed from hours in the studio, sits beside her she recoils slightly looking down away from the man. He smells slightly sour not quite like sweat or even body odor but it's an unpleasant smell which hangs around her clashing horribly with the delicate jasmine scent which she sprayed liberally on her pulse points this morning—more than usual especially considering what she has to do later but she couldn't resist it and for a second after she'd sprayed herself she couldn't help but imagine a scenario in which he recognized her scent. It's the same one she has always used and he'd commented on it and how despite the fact that by the end she'd sheen with sweat she would still smelt like jasmine. She had always flushed when he said that, her red cheeks growing redder. There was something oddly personal about him recognizing her scent but she couldn't put her finger on what. By the time she should get off the bus she hasn't snuck any more glances at him and she's tempted to sit on that bus until he gets off just to give her more time to remember his features but she doesn't and instead gets off the bus and with only a small regretful look backwards she walks off, black heels clacking against the slate grey pavement with purpose.
The next week she stays home with a fever running at 40 degrees Celsius. She considers getting up and catching her bus but whenever she gets up a rush of bile sends her running for the toilet or a bowl depending on which is closer. She feels a wave of regret about not seeing him on the bus but she consoles herself with ben and jerry's, TV programs she hasn't watched since she hit puberty and the fact that it's not like he's going to miss her or even notice that's she's not on the bus. But she doesn't know why she cares. They both know that nothing could've happened, they never even spoke about it afterwards maintaining a mask of clinical detachment until finally he was forced to leave on a day she couldn't help but remember.
The next week you tap your fingers against your skirt as you wait to see if he'll get on the bus. You're not sure why you are nervous but when you see him lounging in the bus shelter you let out a breath that you scarcely even realize that you were holding. He sits in the row in front of you to the right and is unwittingly in the perfect place for you to watch him and you can see his profile easily and for the first time you look at him freely—imprinting everything about him into your brain. Emily hadn't realized that she looked forward to these journeys so much until she had missed that one last week and knowing it now she drank him in like an addict not caring if he noticed you staring at him. It's not as though he'd recognize her anyway if he hadn't already and the power of her anonymity washes over her and empowers her to run her gaze across his face and his body. His face is gaunter than the last time you saw him properly but as you watch his signature smile crosses his face and he's just as beautiful as he was before. His hair is longer but not unreasonably so, her pet peeve would be guys with long hair and a shadow of stubble crosses his face casting it into a shadow and it ages him. His eyes are still the same warm brown color that she remembers so clearly, too clearly—probably a result of all those hours she'd spent looking at them as they planned even after her feelings went rouge. He turns around and she starts for a second before grabbing the water bottle which sits in her satchel which isn't that school bag tucked away in a cubby hole and after pulling the water bottle lid open with her teeth in a practiced neat motion—she hasn't used this bottle since she was a kid and old habits die hard—and she drinks deeply from it hoping that by the type she puts it down he's turned back around but he hasn't and she thinks he's staring at her. She closes the bottle self consciously before wiping the back of her hand against her chin where she can feel water dripping. A hint of berry colored lipstick comes away on her hand and she resists the urge to rub it against her own white top instead opting to rub it against the bus seat.. When she looks up again he's busied himself in a phone and she feels a sigh of relief but she can't help but relive the moment he turned around and saw you. She just didn't know what he had seen when he'd turned around and seen her.
The next week Emily almost don't get on the bus and almost hails an uber instead but she doesn't have the money and she knows it's stupid that she's so scared of the way that he looked at her and with that thought in mind she get onto the bus and sit in her usual seat. The three stops until where he gets on pass slowly and by the type the bus pulls up Emily's dying of frustration. No one but an old lady who takes far too long getting onto the bus and pulling out her freedom pass which entitles her to get free transport. She clatters along the bus once she's finally sorted and sat in a priority seat the bus surges forwards leaving the bus stop, his bus stop behind her. She sinks down into her chair feeling instantly foolish in her pale blush pink lipstick and the pastel green dress she had donned this morning. It's a gift from her sister from a few years back—she'd originally planned on bringing it back as it wasn't her usual style but she'd dressed it down with a denim jacket and combined with sneakers she thought it looked nice. She'd been so stupid she though digging her nails into her palms every time she even considered looking up or even doing something other than beating herself up. She brushes a brown wisp of hair which had slipped out of the braid which held her hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear and then she stares down at her hands which are sitting on the pale green fabric delicately exerting no pressure so the skirt falls uninterrupted across her lap. When her stop is called her hand snakes up to press the button to stop the bus and when it shudders to a stop she pulls her satchel onto her shoulder and gets off the bus. It's hay fever she'll claim later but a solitary tear falls down her cheek and she's not sure why but she can't stop it from making it's way downwards, can't bring herself to wipe it from her face and instead wears it like a badge of honor. She walks along the pavement to the crossing when she hears her name from a voice she's almost forgotten and when she pivots like a dancer she was she sees him standing there. He's complete perfection and he walks towards her as though he thinks she might run away any second. She might run away; she hasn't ruled that out as a strategy to avoid him. His voice is low, smooth as whiskey and its dulcet tones lull her into a relaxed state of mind even though that's the antithesis to how she feels.
"Hey," she says before mentally scolding herself. It's the first time she's seen him in 5 years and she says hey. If he didn't think she was a naïve schoolgirl before he would now.
He looked at her for a second, brown eyes inscrutable, before he cracks a grin and his lips curve into her favorite lopsided smile of his, "Hey," he paused again and she wants him to continue, she needs to hear him say something else. "It's you isn't it"
She wants run to him, to hold him in her arms to assure him between touches that it's her. But she stays stock-still, bolt upright as though she is strapped to a stake and she merely nods her head. "It's me—Hunter," she says after a pregnant pause.
He steps forward his eyes full of wonder, which was reserved just for her and a selfish part of her wishes that he hadn't given up all those years ago when she'd pushed him away. Given up despite the fact that he was just as broken, as she was when she had to break his heart. He outstretches a hand as if to touch her but he catches it before he can lift it fully and instead toys on the hem of his shirt with it. "You've changed," he says and it's true. She's not the girl who he met all those years ago, Emily's older more experienced and possibly almost a decent person but as he steps closer again she quakes slightly inside and she know that he still affects her the same way.
"I've missed you," she murmurs as much for her own benefit as his.
She wants him to apologize to promise not to leave but he remains mute for a moment too long and you freeze with nerves until he smiles his easy smile and murmurs back that he's missed her too. The pair of you stand stand nose to nose just taking in each other and if she though his profile was beautiful it's nothing compared to his whole face which is iridescent both from the sunlight which despite it being England is surprisingly strong and from the smile which crosses his face just as easily.
"You free now," Hunter asks and his voice is surprisingly rough and it seems deeper than usual, harsher and his brown eyes are on fire.
Emily averts her own green eyes from his darker ones, "I can't," she apologizes. " I have an appointment." It sounds lame but it's true and she hopes he won't mind but it's not the kind of appointment you miss. There's a reason she come here every week and it's not child friendly.
"No worries," Hunter says lazily tucking his hands into his pockets nonchalantly. 'I guess I'll see you around than," he says and she doesn't realize what he's saying—not fully at least until he turns and disappears into the crowd. She follows quickly but she can't help but loose him and when Emily turns around finally to head to her appointment she can't shake the feeling that she's lighter and freed from something but she's not sure why.
AN This is the first story I've posted from this account and its about Emily and Hunter cause I couldn't let their story end how it did in the show. I hope you liked it as I'm really excited about this story and a couple other projects I have planned. Somewhat considering doing another chapter to this one shot from Hunter's perspective. So comment if you want me to do that or have any thoughts on my characterisation as I wasn't sure about it as I wrote the one shot originally for something else but then I realised that it was perfect for these two as they are probably my favourite couple from the next step.