The kettle had boiled twenty minutes ago, and the tea bag now floated in the mug like a forgotten spell, steeped too long, fvor long gone, the water cold with indecision. Max hadn’t touched it. They hadn’t moved much at all.

  Hunched at their desk, chin in one hand, fingers ghosting the trackpad with absent-minded rhythm, they stared at the screen. The Echoes of Yggdrasil project was open, with the timeline loaded on-screen, and Leif was reciting a half-lost saga as if it mattered. It usually did. But not today.

  Today, the real focus sat just beside the keyboard.Their phone.Sophie’s name.

  Her st message hovered like a warm ember on the lockscreen:

  Sophie:

  “I hope you made it home dry, muffin thief.”

  Followed, of course, by a sparkle emoji, her signature, her shield, her glitter-coated truth.

  Max had read it at least seventeen times. Possibly more. Each read was different, each one yering new meaning on top of the st like a reused piece of parchment of nerves. Sometimes it felt casual, like she hadn’t noticed the panic behind the kiss. Sometimes it felt teasing, like she had, and was pying the long game. Sometimes, just sometimes, it felt like hope.

  They hesitated over the reply box, the cursor blinking like it was daring them to say something real.

  “Sorry again for yesterday.”

  Nope.Too formal. Delete.

  “I didn’t mean to kiss you. I mean, I did. But not like that. Not in a flee-the-scene way.”

  God, no. Delete.

  “Are we okay?”

  Pathetic. Delete.

  With a frustrated sigh, Max set the phone down with a little more force than necessary. The cck echoed in the quiet of the room, and for a moment, they imagined Judith the café cat around the corner, back in her window seat, tail flicking in disdain. It wasn’t real, but the memory of her judgmental stare nded anyway, like a paw to the ego.

  They slumped back in their chair and exhaled slowly through their nose, staring at the ceiling as if it might blink Morse code answers back at them.

  The kiss pyed in their mind again, not the actual contact, but the fleeting moment that followed. The pause. The wide-eyed silence. The not-quite-horror on Sophie’s face. The fact that she hadn’t recoiled, hadn’t said anything... before Max bolted like a kicked dog.

  They stood too quickly, knocking their chair into the wall, and crossed the room in a few stiff strides. Their body felt too tight, too visible in all the wrong ways. Stripping off their hoodie, they tossed it carelessly across the unmade bed, then opened their wardrobe as if it might offer wisdom in the folds of cotton and denim.

  Everything was dark. Practical. Armor masquerading as clothing.

  Their hand hovered for a second over a fnnel. Then, almost against their will, drifted lower, to the bottom drawer. The one that hadn’t been opened in weeks.

  Inside, folded carefully, were the pieces Maxine used to wear when the world allowed it. A soft, storm-blue bralette. A camisole with delicate straps. High-waisted underwear with tiny stitched stars, worn only on days when softness was more than just a dream.

  Max didn’t touch them.

  They only looked.

  And for one fragile breath, imagined what it would feel like to wear them now, not for defense, but to be seen, not for safety, but for Sophie.

  That’s when the old voice slithered in, slick and rehearsed.

  “You’re only pretty when I dress you. Otherwise, you’re just trying too hard.”

  Him, always lingering in the corners.

  Max closed the drawer with deliberate care. No sm, no drama. But the tightness in their jaw said enough. One heartbeat ter, they kicked it anyway, just once, for good measure.

  By the time they returned to their desk, they’d donned the usual uniform: pin bck tee, worn jeans, too many zippers. The jacket went on st, like a shield, and their fingers paused on the hem for a second before retreating to the phone.

  They typed without hesitation this time.

  Max:

  “Hey. If you’d be up for a do-over sometime… I’d really like to try again.”

  One st gnce.

  Then send.

  The whoosh of the message felt too loud in the quiet, but they didn’t take it back.

  They flipped the phone face down and stared at the opposite wall, half-expecting it to offer commentary. Nothing came.

  Maybe it was too soon.Maybe Sophie had already moved on.Maybe she hadn’t.Maybe this would be the start of something if they didn’t ruin it.

  They didn’t expect an answer right away.

  But they continued to listen for the buzz anyway.

  Just in case.

  Sophie saw the message as soon as it arrived.

  She didn’t open it right away, just stared at the notification like it was a dragon egg. Beautiful, warm, probably important… and possibly dangerous.

  Max:

  Hey. If you’d be up for a do-over sometime… I’d really like to try again.

  There it was.

  The thing she’d hoped for and dreaded in equal measure. Her thumb hovered, frozen above the gss. Just looking at the message made her heartbeat skip, and then tried to make up for it with double-time percussion.

  She sat on the edge of her bed in pajama shorts and an oversized hoodie with a cartoon moth on the front and the words “I Believe in Cozy” cracked across the chest like an incantation. Her tea, hibiscus, naturally, sat untouched and lukewarm on her nightstand, steeped into a pinkish-red potion that smelled faintly floral and was now entirely useless.

  With a groan that was more dramatic than necessary (but completely authentic), she flopped backward onto her pillows. The ceiling had seen many Sophie spirals before, and it would see many more, but this one had extra stakes. This one mattered.

  “I knew they were gonna text,” she said aloud, voice muffled by her arm. “I knew it. I felt it. And I am still not emotionally dressed for this moment.”

  The kiss hadn’t been a deal-breaker. It hadn’t even been a surprise in a bad way. Max had kissed her like someone falling into gravity. It had been real. Hot, yes. Intense. But mostly, honest. A pure, impulsive truth she hadn’t expected, hadn’t prepared for, and hadn’t stopped thinking about.

  Then they were gone.

  No words. No breath. Just a cardigan, a heartbeat, and absence.

  Now this.

  A soft, clean opening. A do-over.

  It made her want to say yes right away. It made her want to say too much.

  She reached for her phone, tapped it once, just to see the message light up again. Then, of course, she immediately texted Juno.

  Sophie:

  okay so Max just sent me the softest most tentative maybe-date text ever and I’m going to die of queer in 3 minutes pls advise

  Juno:

  Deep breath. No glitter grenades. Just one emoji and zero capital letters.

  Sophie:

  What if I just reply with a selfie and “you free Thursday”That’s chill, right?

  Juno:

  Unhinged but effective. On brand. Just, no skin this time, babe. We are flirting, not summoning.Keep the sor fres set to medium sparkle.

  Sophie ughed softly, then sat upright, legs folded beneath her, phone cradled like it might whisper advice if she held it long enough. Juno was right. She had a history of going Full Sophie? on people too soon, offering up big feelings, grand gestures, cardigan cuddles, and themed pylists before the first real date even happened.

  Max didn’t need a fireworks show.Max needed… crity. Care. Consent.

  Sophie got up and went to the mirror, smoothing her hair with one hand as she inspected the situation. Messy bun: passable. Lip balm: surviving. Vibe: very “accidental pixie caught at home mid-swoon.”

  She took a quick selfie, not perfect, not posed. Just her, cardigan colr half-slipping, eyes warm with something she didn’t want to name just yet. The kind of photo you send to someone when you want them to know you’re not pretending.

  Caption typed, cursor blinking like it had opinions.

  Sophie:

  “I’d like that. Also, I have a new muffin-based hypothesis to test. You free Thursday?”

  She hesitated, smiled, and hit send.

  Then, she immediately regretted everything, screamed internally, clutched her pillow, and waited with the patience of a hummingbird on espresso.

  No reply yet.

  However, the message was now out there. And weirdly, that felt okay, like she’d stepped off the ledge, but just a little. Just enough to feel the breeze.

  She reached for her tea, took a lukewarm sip, winced, and ughed at herself. The butterflies in her stomach had evolved into tiny ballroom dancers—a whole performance troupe of anxiety and excitement with glitter confetti and dramatic monologues.

  But somewhere in all that motion, she realized something straightforward:

  She wanted to see Max again.

  Really see them.

  Max had returned to their desk with the vague determination of someone trying to do something productive but mostly waiting to be emotionally ambushed by a phone buzz.

  The monitors were on. The script draft was open. The footage hovered in the timeline, a frame frozen on Leif mid-recitation, eyes shadowed, hands lifted in that slow, theatrical way he had when invoking sagas and meaning. Max stared at it bnkly. The keyboard might as well have been written in Futhark.

  Then the phone vibrated.

  Just once.

  Max froze.

  Not a double buzz. Not a group chat.Just… her.

  They picked it up, slowly, like it might explode.

  Sophie:

  “I’d like that. Also, I have a new muffin-based hypothesis to test. You free Thursday?”

  Below it: a selfie.

  And oh.Oh.

  It wasn’t lewd. Not exactly.But it wasn’t not, either.

  Cardigan off one shoulder. Hair a little messy. The light hit just right, like the room itself had a crush on her. Sophie looked flushed in a way that could be from ughter, nerves, or just knowing exactly what she was doing.

  Max made a noise. A very soft, very real noise.

  That was the exact moment Leif let himself in.

  “Ah,” he said, voice syrupy with mischief. “So, this is the look of someone recently blessed by the gods.”

  Max scrambled to lock their phone and almost dropped it. “Jesus! Leif!”

  “No, no,” Leif waved a hand, eyes twinkling. “Though I’ve worn his likeness in poorer centuries. But please, don’t stop on my account. You were clearly having a moment.”

  Max’s ears were already red. “How did you even get in here?”

  “I exist outside of mortal time and door locks,” Leif replied smoothly, settling onto the arm of the couch like he was meant to be part of the décor. “Also, you left the door half-cracked. Either for fate or food delivery, I’ll let you decide.”

  That food delivery comment gave Max the shivers, given Leif's restricted dietary requirements.

  Max sighed and ran both hands through their hair, trying not to look like they were melting. “It wasn’t anything. Just… she replied.”

  “Oh, did she?” Leif asked, casual as winter wind. “And with imagery, I see. How… modern. Let me guess, something casual, devastatingly fttering, and precisely angled to ruin your composure?”

  “…It was a selfie.”

  Leif made a noise like he’d just tasted forbidden wine. “Weaponized. Delightful. I do hope you thanked her for her service to the Arts.”

  Max muttered something about leaving the room forever and becoming a cryptid.

  Leif tilted his head, his tone softening, just a fraction. “And what are you going to say back?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was deep. Myth-deep. Story-deep.

  Then Leif spoke, eyes now unreadable:

  “I could give you crity, if you asked.”

  Max looked up. “What?”

  “I see the pattern beneath things. The way threads pull. I could tell you how this ends. Whether it’s just another echo in your story, or the chord that changes your music entirely.”

  Max’s stomach did a small, traitorous flip.

  “But crity,” Leif said,” is a kind of trap. Once you know your part in the myth, you stop improvising. And you, Max, are far too interesting when you’re making it up as you go.”

  They stared at him.

  Then looked down at the phone again.

  “I don’t want crity,” Max said, quiet but confident.“I want… a chance.”

  Leif smiled. The real kind. The rare kind.

  “Then let the chaos bloom.”

  And like that, he stood. Swept a gnce over the dark monitor, the cluttered desk, the phone still glowing faintly.

  “You should reply before her sparkle anxiety eats her whole.”

  Then he was gone.

  Probably through the door. Possibly through a metaphor.

  The room felt quieter after Leif left. Not peaceful, more like the quiet that follows thunder. A kind of stillness that hummed under the skin, echoing with things that hadn't quite settled.

  Max sat motionless in their chair, the blue light of the monitor casting soft shadows across their cheekbones. The phone was still in their hand, screen glowing, Sophie’s selfie lighting up their chest like a small fire they didn’t know how to tend.

  They hadn’t even unlocked it again. They didn’t need to. The image had already burned itself behind their eyes.

  The cardigan was sliding off her shoulder. That warm, unfiltered grin. A look that was both confident and careful, as if she knew what it might do to them and sent it anyway. Not seductive. Not posed. But intentional. Real.

  Max swallowed.

  The cursor blinked in the message box like a heartbeat. A tiny piece of tech waiting to be brave on their behalf.

  They typed:

  “You look really cute.”

  Then stared. Winced.

  Too ft. Too generic. It didn’t match the photo, didn’t match Sophie, and said nothing at all. They deleted it.

  Tried again:

  “I’d love to see you Thursday.”

  Now they sounded like a calendar notification. Delete.

  Next:

  “Your cardigan should be illegal.”

  They snorted softly. That one had promise. But not now. Saved it to drafts like an inside joke with themself.

  Then:

  “Hey. You’re dangerous, and I’m pretty sure that photo should come with a warning bel, but yes. Thursday sounds amazing.”

  Better. But it still didn’t sit right. It felt performative, too aware of itself, too much armor.

  They sighed, tossed the phone face down on the bed, and fell back beside it, their limbs sprawled as if the mattress might absorb them and save them the effort of existing. This was stupid.

  Not the message. Not Sophie. Just how hard it was to speak pinly without feeling like they were inviting the universe to hurt them.

  They stared up at the ceiling. It had no wisdom to offer.

  Somewhere in the rhythm of their breathing, something shifted.

  They weren’t scared anymore.Or, no, that wasn’t right.They were still nervous. Still wired tight. But the terror…the flight. It had faded. Sophie hadn’t just replied; she had answered. With whimsy. With warmth. With a version of herself that said, I see you, and I’m not afraid.

  And Max… kind of wanted to meet her there.

  They sat up. Peeled off the zippered jacket that had become a second skin these st few weeks. The bck tee followed. In its pce, they pulled a softer shirt from the drawer, grey, lightweight, with a tiny stitched consteltion just over the heart. Something no one ever saw but them. Something Maxine would’ve picked.

  It wasn’t a fg. It wasn’t a full shift.

  But it was closer.

  They padded barefoot back to the mirror. Looked. Not judged, just looked.

  The person staring back still had sharp edges, but something in their eyes had softened, like a door left ajar.

  Back at the bed, they picked up the phone again and opened the camera.

  Paused.

  Then, exhaled and took the shot.

  No filter. Just them, soft-shirted, hair tousled, the barest hint of something vulnerable in the set of their jaw. They didn’t try to smile. But their mouth didn’t fight it when one started to form.

  They typed:

  Max:

  Thursday sounds dangerous.I’m in.

  Send.

  No hesitation this time.

  No breath held, no regrets, cwing at the door.

  Just a message in the thread now. Quiet. Whole. A ntern released over dark water.

  And Max?

  They didn’t flinch.

  They just sat back. Let the air move through the room again.

  And for the first time in what felt like a long, long while, they smiled without apology.

  Sophie didn’t expect the message to arrive so fast.

  She was mid-routine, which meant she was doing absolutely nothing productive. Barefoot in her kitchen, hoodie half-zipped over pajama shorts, brushing her teeth while trying to pick a tea blend to soothe the butterflies still rioting in her ribcage. She hadn’t picked one. She had, however, told her basil pnt about Max’s text. Twice.

  The phone buzzed on the counter.

  Just once.Sharp. Intentional. Like it knew.

  She froze—the toothbrush still in her mouth. Eyes darted to the screen.

  Max’s name.

  Sophie grabbed the phone with the urgency of someone defusing a bomb, thumbprint, unlock, tap.

  Max:

  Thursday sounds dangerous.I’m in.

  Her heart stuttered. Then it kicked off into a gallop.

  She let out a high-pitched squeak, spat the toothpaste into the sink, and started pacing. Quick, restless loops across the tile. Her smile bloomed across her face like a sunrise without asking permission.

  It wasn’t just the yes. It was the tone.

  Max hadn’t sent a safe message. They hadn’t hedged, apologized, or pyed cool. They’d said yes, as if they meant it, with that dry, sly wit. Sophie had already started craving it like caffeine. It was an answer, but it was also a wink.

  She wanted to reply right away. Something flirty. Or funny. Maybe a GIF of a sparkly cat in a tuxedo. But before she could decide, her eyes caught on something just below the text.

  An image.

  Max had sent a photo.

  She tapped it. Enrged it.

  And forgot how lungs worked.

  It wasn’t lewd. Or posed. Or trying. That was what made it devastating.

  Max's hair tousled like they’d just run fingers through it. A soft grey shirt that clung in pces she hadn’t dared imagine yet, just enough curve beneath the fabric to hint at something vulnerable. Something quietly fem. Something intimate.

  Their face wasn’t done up or curated. Their eyes were open in a way they hadn’t been before. No mask. No snark. Just… Max. Real. Tender. Trying.

  Sophie sat down. Hard. Right on the floor.

  Her body felt like it had been unplugged and flooded with glitter at the same time. A warm ache bloomed at the base of her spine. It wasn’t just attraction. It was recognition. That feeling when someone shows you a piece of themselves they usually hide.

  She stared at the photo as if it were sacred, like it might disappear if she blinked too hard.

  The shirt was simple, but it hugged them in a way that made her breath stutter. The faintest hint of a swell. The slope of a shoulder that hadn’t been visible under the yers at the café. The consteltion stitched over their heart.

  Not dramatic. Not statement-y.

  Just true.

  Sophie opened her texts. Fingers moving before her brain could catch up.

  Sophie:

  Okay, I take it back. I’m actually going to die.They sent a selfie.It’s soft, like emotionally soft.But also… shirt clings in ways I was not emotionally prepared for.

  Juno:

  Oh my GODYou always pull the beautiful haunted ones.This is like if a ghost possessed a poetry student and then fell in love with you.I am saving this to my “emergency queer” folder.This is illegal. I’m suing.Also, girl. GIRL.

  Sophie wheezed. Curled up on her side, knees to chest, phone pressed to her cheek like it might keep her grounded.

  She’d been kissed.She’d been seen.Now she’d been invited.

  Max hadn’t just said yes to Thursday.They’d said yes to being known.

  She sent a photo back, nothing dramatic—a quick, impulsive selfie. Cardigan sliding artfully down one shoulder. Soft smile. Lip bitten just enough to say I saw your photo, and yes, you broke me.

  The second she hit send, she made a strangled noise and threw the phone across the couch.

  Then buried her face in a pillow and whispered into the stuffing:“Don’t fall in love with them.”

  But she already had.

  Later, when her pulse stopped trying to cospy a rave, she padded into her art corner, pulled out the sketchbook she only used when her heart felt too full for words.

  She didn’t draw Max’s face.

  But she drew their shape in that shirt.The line of their jaw.The way their arm curved like it wanted to wrap around someone, but hadn’t decided who yet.

  She drew a consteltion above the figure’s heart.And a sparkle on their sleeve.

  She didn’t know what this was becoming.

  But it was real.And it was hers.And hope, yes, hope was a risky outfit.

  But tonight, Sophie wore it as if it were velvet.

  The creak on the second stair always gave Max away.

  Leif didn’t turn when they descended, just stood near the window, both hands wrapped around a delicate porcein teacup. The cup steamed gently, though the tea inside would never be drunk. It was jasmine today, soft and floral. Not his favorite. But the warmth soaked into his fingers, giving him the illusion of a pulse.

  He held it like someone who remembered rituals, not someone who needed them.

  He paused.

  Tilted his head slightly, nostrils fring like he’d caught something unexpected in the air.

  An aura shift. Small but distinct.

  A new note threaded into the song of the room.

  He hummed low in his throat. Something ancient. Something fond.

  “Well,” he murmured, not quite to Max, not quite to the air, ”Someone’s aura just jumped half an octave.”

  Max didn’t respond. But they adjusted the strap on their bag a little too sharply, looked too hard at the cables on the table. The corner of Leif’s mouth twitched.

  He didn’t press. He rarely did.

  But after a moment, he added softly,” Citrus and static. Hope and old wounds. You got a reply.”

  Still no answer.

  Still, the way Max’s jaw set like a locked gate, they didn’t need to confirm it.

  Leif took a long moment to just... stand in it. The quiet. The energy. The scent of something blooming beneath the surface of Max’s edges.

  “Tread carefully,” he said at st, still cradling the cup as if it meant something. “First love is a delicious curse. Like poppies. Or prophecy.”

  Max snorted. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Leif finally turned, his expression carved from something softer than usual. Not quite a smile. Not quite permission.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Then he disappeared down the corridor like the end of a verse, vanishing with a soft rustle of long coat and an old, familiar hum. The kind of tune that once made his lover cry in Vienna. Before all the stories grew teeth.

  The city had gone quiet in that way only te hours could manage, no honking, no heels on pavement, just the low rustle of leaves against shuttered windows and the occasional clink of radiator pipes arguing with the season. Even the streetlight shadows had softened.

  Max y in bed, limbs spyed across too many pillows like a reluctant deity cast from the heavens—one arm tucked behind their head, the other resting on their stomach, rising and falling slowly. The ceiling offered no answers. Just texture. Cracks in old pster and a faint water stain shaped like a griffin, if they squinted hard enough.

  Their phone was next to them on the nightstand, still glowing faintly. Not buzzing. Not calling. Just present.

  The image Sophie sent was still open, half-hidden behind their lock screen, like a secret trying not to burn through the gss. Max hadn’t touched it since. Hadn’t zoomed in. Hadn’t swiped away. But they knew every pixel now by heart.

  The cardigan. The smile that wasn’t a smile. The eyes that didn’t blink.

  She had seen them.

  And she hadn’t run.

  Max let their eyes close, not to sleep, but to hold. To wrap around the possibility without crushing it.

  They hadn’t run, either.

  And Thursday… Thursday was close enough to taste.

  Three blocks away, or a universe, depending on how you measured emotional distance, Sophie was curled up on top of three mismatched bnkets in a tangle of limbs and half-folded sketchbooks.

  One leg kicked free. Hair still damp from her te-night shower, leaving dark streaks on the pillowcase. She hadn’t bothered with pajamas. Just a long sleep shirt that said Feeling Lucky? in sparkly lettering, a leftover from a D&D-themed sleepover st winter.

  Her phone was still on her chest, rising and falling with her breath.

  Max’s half-moon emoji glowed back at her like a secret consteltion.

  Sophie hadn’t expected to feel so settled. Not giddy. Not screaming. Just safe. Like the fluttering part of her had finally nded somewhere, it didn’t need to keep buzzing.

  She pressed two fingers gently to the screen. Not hard. Not performative.

  Just... hello. Still here.

  “Thursday, then,” she whispered into the hush, the kind of sentence you send out like a kite string, hoping it comes back with a star.

  She smiled with her whole face, unrestrained and real, as if it had been hiding. Not a practiced tilt, not a people-pleaser grin. Something soft. Something earned.

  She didn’t know what kind of date it would be.She didn’t know what kind of kiss it might lead to.

  But she knew this:

  If Max showed up, she would too.

  All the way.