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5 ; when you fixed it
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She's crying when he first sees her, quiet and crouched, folded in on herself. And he's not sensitive about it at all, as five year old boys are apt not to be, and the first thing he thinks to do is poke her in the back with a jab so hard she forgets to cry for a moment and turns to glare it at him.
"What was that for!?"
"Why are you crying?" the boy asks her, eyes round with curiosity and brow furrowed with concern.
"None of your business," she huffs, turning away from him and hiding her head in her knees with a great sniff. "Go away."
She doesn't look around again but she knows he's still there and if she felt like it, she'd push him away herself and run off to a more secluded corner of the playground. But as it is, the most Erza can manage is a high whine and another affronted huff. She wants, more than anything, to be left alone.
"Come here," the boy eventually says, and it takes her by surprise so suddenly that she altogether forgets to ignore him and turns around to stare.
Her narrowed eyes do little to dissuade him.
"Come here," he repeats authoritatively. He puts his hands on his waist and straightens his back, giving the impression of trying to look bigger than he is. "Let me fix it."
She peeks up at him with a questioning look, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
His determined look melts into something gentler. Friendly. Accommodating. "It's what my dad says when I've hurt myself. You've gotta kiss it better."
"It's not a boo-boo," she mumbles angrily, squinting at the ground. "You can't just kiss me better."
The boy crouches down to look her in the eye with an earnest grin. "I can try!"