Max stood in front of the closet, as if it might bite them.

  The door was already open. That was the easy part.The hard part was everything else.

  There was a time, not even that long ago, if you measured in calendar years, when dressing had been an act of joy. Or at least rebellion. A statement. They used to scroll past fashion tags at 2 a.m. like spellbooks. Crop tops. Lipstick. Mesh. Things that clung. Things that flowed. The body had once been a canvas—something to paint in yers and contradictions.

  Then He happened.

  A year in his orbit. Two years since the first compliment that wasn’t one. Max still didn’t know how to bel it. Abuse, maybe. Grooming or gaslighting for sure. There had been affection, but only if Max performed it right. There had been touch, but only if Max surrendered shape and silence.

  There had been ce once. A vender bralette under a leather jacket. He had loved that. Told them they looked like “a good little contradiction.” Told them to stand still while he took pictures. Told them they didn’t need to talk, just be.

  By the time it ended, Max didn’t know what part of them was real anymore.

  They’d stopped wearing anything that could be interpreted as an invitation. Layers. Hoodies. Boots that hit the ground like armor. Everything dark and useful. Everything safe.

  The softness had been packed away in drawers and forgotten like dream journals.

  Until Sophie.

  Until the girl with stars on her shoes and twenty-two scented candles and the kind of ugh that cracked their ribs open nicely.

  Until that half-kiss that had wrecked them sideways and left them starving for something they weren’t sure they were allowed to want anymore.

  Max stepped closer to the closet. Reached in.

  Pulled out a hanger. Then another. Denim, cotton, corduroy, nothing fit. Not in the body sense, but in the soul sense. Everything looked like someone else.

  Then their fingers brushed against it.Pale blue. Light stretch. Worn just enough to be soft but not saggy.

  A shirt they hadn’t worn since, well. Since before. It wasn’t fem, exactly. But it clung, just slightly. Fttered without announcing. Whispered, instead of shouted.

  They took it down from the hanger and held it, as if it might fall apart in their hands.

  The mirror waited, already too honest.

  They stripped to the waist slowly. The air in the room changed temperature, chilling against bare skin: the colrbone, the scar, the slope of the waist. Nothing had changed, and yet, it felt like betrayal to look.

  Their ribs still bore the memory of His touch. Not fingerprints. Not bruises. But pressure. The pressure of being looked at like a doll someone wanted to pose just right.

  They slipped the shirt on.

  It clung. Not much. Just enough to remind.

  Their breath caught halfway between inhale and expnation.

  Then, the drawer.

  The one they hadn’t opened in months.

  They knelt beside it as if it were a sacred object. Or cursed.

  Inside: rows of folded underwear, bck and grey and navy. And at the back, under a pair of rolled socks, like an exiled relic, vender. Lace. Trimmed in satin, delicate as a sigh.

  They reached for it. Touched it with two fingers.

  His voice came like a sp.

  “That’s the version of you I like best. The one that doesn’t fight it.”

  “You’re prettier when you don’t speak.”

  “This is who you are. Don’t ruin it.”

  Max flinched. Stood up too fast. The drawer half-closed behind them.

  The shame was old. But it knew the way.

  It climbed their spine like a vine. Wrapped around their ribs. Tightened at the throat.

  And, they almost folded.

  Almost shoved the shirt back in the closet. Nearly reached for the hoodie, the yers, and the safe. Almost swallowed it down like they had a hundred times before.

  But they didn’t.

  They stood in the middle of the room, hands shaking, and let it burn.

  Didn’t fight it. Didn’t drown it. Just stood still in the middle of the fire.

  The ce stayed in the drawer.

  Not in shame, just not tonight.

  Tonight was not about seduction.Or surrender.It was about showing up.

  They picked something else, soft, breathable, neutral. Something themselves, even if that self still didn’t have a name.

  The shirt was smoothed over. Hair was finger-fluffed. A little gloss was applied, quickly and without ceremony. Barely visible.

  But felt.

  And when they looked in the mirror again, really looked, they saw someone trembling.

  Someone trying.

  And trying was more than they'd done in a long, long time.

  Max reached forward and touched their reflection with two fingers—a soft tap against the gss. No words. Just proof.

  The panic didn’t vanish. It coiled, ready to pounce.

  But beneath it, something else had started to bloom.

  A voice, small, unsteady, but theirs:

  “She’s going to see you.”

  Sophie changed three times.

  Not because she didn’t know what to wear. She had chosen the outfit the previous day and tried it on the night before. And again this morning, just to be sure.

  But at 5:38 p.m., she was standing in front of her mirror for the fourth time in two hours, adjusting the sleeves on her cardigan like the world might end if the hem didn’t sit just so on her wrist.

  “Okay,” she told her reflection, hands on hips. “No glitter grenades. No sparkle war crimes. Just… you. Turned up to eleven.”

  The outfit was peak Sophie:Soft sage-green skirt with pockets deep enough for snacks or secrets.Graphic tee with a hand-painted cat reading a book titled Unforgettable.The same worn cardigan from the day they met, intentionally chosen. A visual callback. A continuity nod in the romcom of her own making.Hair curled at the ends. Lipstick a hopeful berry pink.And just enough highlighter on her cheekbones to look dewy, not radioactive.

  She turned, checked herself from the side. Twirled once, just to see if the skirt had the right amount of swish. It did.

  And yet, her stomach felt like a blender.

  Her phone buzzed on the windowsill. Juno, naturally.

  Juno:

  You’ve already changed three times. Stop it. You look edible.But like. Consent-first edible. Not creepy-witch edible.

  Sophie grinned despite herself. Her thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed:

  Sophie:

  Should I add the moon pin? Or is that trying too hard?

  Juno:

  You’re already trying too hard. That’s your thing.Moon pin is adorable. Go full Sailor Moon queer chaos. No survivors.Just no skin this time, okay?

  Sophie ughed out loud. She deserved that one.

  Last time she’d gone full sor fre on a second date, she’d worn a crop top and glitter liner and left her poor date blinking like a disco ball had just kissed them. They never made it to dessert. She hadn’t even gotten to show them her color-coded snack map for Pride month.

  She pinned the tiny silver crescent to her cardigan like a finishing move.

  Then stopped. Stared at her reflection again.

  And her smile faltered, just a little.

  Max hadn’t said anything about the shift. About the new softness. They didn’t need to.

  Sophie had seen it, just in that one photo. A stretch of colrbone. A glint of gloss. A quiet boldness tucked between hesitation and hope.

  It tugged at something inside her. Not confusion. Not discomfort.

  Just curiosity.

  Like she’d caught a glimpse of a secret and wanted to be trusted with the rest.

  She didn’t want to get it wrong. She just wanted to show up. For Max. For this weird, glitter-streaked maybe-thing between them.

  And maybe for herself, too.

  She turned back to the mirror. Gave herself the look. Eyebrow slightly raised. Shoulders back. The “I am made of whimsy and caffeine and I will ruin your emotional stability” face.

  Then she grabbed her boots from under the bed, bck with tiny silver flecks like consteltions, and pulled them on with practiced speed.

  Bag? Check.Lip balm? Check.Tiny emergency candy tin she’d painted with Max’s name in glitter paint? Double check.

  She checked her phone one st time—no new messages from Max. Just the little half-moon emoji still glowing from earlier, like it was guarding the space between them.

  Sophie pressed two fingers gently to the screen and whispered, ”Thursday, then.”

  And walked out the door like a girl on a mission.

  Max stared at the front door like it might explode.

  Shoes on. Keys in hand. Shirt smoothed down with the edge of their palm until the fabric clung like second thoughts.

  They were ready.

  Right?

  They’d picked the pale-blue shirt with care. Something soft. Something that hugged just enough. Gloss, subtle and barely pink, applied, wiped off, then reapplied in a thinner yer. It wasn’t a look. It was a gesture. A whisper. A maybe.

  They’d caught their reflection once as they passed the hallway mirror. Paused. Let themselves be seen for all of three seconds. It had felt like holding a note too long, like waiting for someone to say “yes” and bracing for the “no” anyway.

  The stillness cracked.

  Not from the phone.

  Not from outside.

  From inside.

  A tightness behind the ribs. That old, warning static buzz in their skull. Like a fault line shifting just beneath the surface.

  Max blinked. The front door hadn’t moved. But their hands suddenly felt too empty. Their clothes too loud.

  She’s going to look at you like he did.

  Say the right things until you’re naked, then rewrite the rules.

  You’re making it easy. Again.

  They swallowed. Tongue dry.

  The ce in the drawer had stayed untouched. They’d told themselves that meant they were in control. But now the shirt felt just as dangerous, like another unspoken contract waiting to be broken.

  Their breath hitched. Shoulders tensed. The air around them shifted, no longer warm, no longer hopeful.

  They turned.

  Didn’t think. Just moved.

  Back into the bathroom. Light on. The door halfway open. The mirror caught them again, but they didn’t pause to meet its gaze.

  They stripped the shirt off slowly. Folded it once, neat, reverent, like something sacred they weren’t ready to carry.

  Their hands found the old tee on the hook. Soft bck cotton. Worn edges. The neckline stretched just enough to sink inside.

  Then the hoodie. The one that felt like a shell. Thumbholes. Oversized. Safety by way of familiarity.

  They slid into it like memory.

  And stood.

  Still.

  Silent.

  This version of them wasn’t untrue.

  But it wasn’t all of them either.

  It was just the version that knew how to move through the world without getting caught in its teeth.

  Masc wasn’t a ‘home’.

  But it was armor.

  They wiped the gloss from their lips with the back of their wrist. The faint shimmer clung like guilt.

  Max rinsed their hands. Dried them on a towel they didn’t remember hanging up. Everything felt dimmer. But also quieter.

  They looked in the mirror again.

  Not defiance.

  Not surrender.

  Just enough to make it through the night.

  Max opened the door like it might blow back in their face.

  They didn’t look bad. Just… safe. Hoodie, dark jeans, boots. Masc mode engaged. Hair tidy. Clean face. Eyes too sharp from overthinking. The kind of look that said ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine’, even when it wasn’t true.

  They hadn’t even made it back into the room before the knock came. Right on time. Like the universe didn’t trust them with a single second of stillness.

  And when they opened the door,

  Sophie smiled like the stars were in alignment and she'd just been handed a map to them.

  Not in a clingy, fate-driven way. Just like someone who’d tried on twelve outfits, checked the mirror from five different angles, and still said yes, this is me. Someone who’d shown up with her whole self zipped into her pockets and painted on her lips.

  “Hi,” she said—one word, seismic and straightforward.

  Max didn’t speak right away. Because holy hell.

  She was radiant. Not in a capital-G Gmorous way. But in that kind of light-soaked, midday-sun-after-rain glow. Skirt swishing just enough. Cat T-shirt mischievous. That same damn cardigan from the café, the one that had started all of this. And at her colr, pinned like a blessing, a tiny silver crescent moon.

  “You look…” Max cleared their throat. “Like someone who actually enjoys dressing for dates.”

  Sophie grinned. “I do. And I figured if I was going to be nervously adorable, I might as well commit.”

  Her gaze drifted to Max’s outfit. Just a flicker. She didn’t linger, didn’t frown. But Max could feel it anyway.

  They were expecting softness. Maybe curve. Maybe a sliver of gloss. Perhaps something closer to what they'd hinted at in that photo.

  Instead, they got the fortress.

  Sophie didn’t say anything. But something flickered, so small it could’ve been a trick of the light. Relief, maybe. Or disappointment, trying not to look disappointed.

  Then she reached into her cardigan pocket and produced a small tin, paint-chipped and glitter-sealed. Max’s name was scribbled on it in curly lettering, framed by hand-drawn stars and a single crooked heart.

  “Emergency candy,” she said. “For conversational dead zones. Or if one of us tries to talk about trauma before dessert.”

  Max took it like it might detonate. “This is... weirdly thoughtful.”

  “I’m weirdly thoughtful,” Sophie said proudly. “Come on. Let’s walk. You promised me decent tea and minimal ghost stories.”

  They stepped outside together. The air smelled like pavement and the soft green haze of approaching spring. The sky was overcast but kind, with clouds like crumpled tissue paper, just enough light behind them to feel hopeful.

  Max kept their hands deep in their pockets. Sophie walked close, but not touching. Her presence didn’t push, it invited.

  For a few blocks, they danced around the truth. Let their mouths fill the space with nonsense that mattered in its own way.

  Favorite zines. Bizarre pet behaviors. Someone Sophie had once dated who had three snakes and named them after Marxist philosophers. Max made a face. Sophie tried to expin how Hegel was actually the sweetest.

  But beneath the banter, there was weight.

  Not heavy. Just present. Like a pressure drop before the rain.

  Sophie caught it first. Tilted her head. Gnced over.

  “You okay?”

  Max didn’t look at her. Their voice was quiet. “I had a different outfit. But I panicked.”

  Sophie didn’t miss a beat. “Okay. So?”

  “So I wanted to be someone I used to be, but I’m not ready to be. And then I wasn’t. And now you’re here and glowing, and I feel like a Halloween decoration next to a very thoughtful shooting star.”

  Sophie stopped walking. Turned to face them fully. Her expression softened, just a hair.

  Then, without ceremony, she flicked the edge of their hoodie drawstring.

  “I don’t care what you’re wearing,” she said softly. “You showed up.”

  Max didn’t respond right away. Their jaw worked. Their hands stayed in their pockets, fists curled around the silence.

  But something in them exhaled.

  Then Sophie smiled again, warmer this time, like she meant it more deeply.

  “Also, for the record? You look hot in bck.”

  That broke the tension like gss tapping the edge of a teacup.

  Max ughed. Just once. Short and sharp and surprised by itself.

  They kept walking.

  And somewhere in the sound of their footsteps lining up, the knot in Max’s chest started to loosen, just a little.

  The café Max had picked wasn’t crowded, but it hummed.

  A quiet pce tucked two streets off the main drag, comfortable without being cozy, with just enough charm to feel intentional, but not so much that it felt performative. Max had been here before. Knew the tea was decent. Knew the chairs didn’t squeak and the staff wouldn’t hover. It was, in a word, safe.

  Low lighting softened everything it touched. Tables spaced just far enough apart to create a polite illusion of privacy. Daffodils leaned zily out of chipped teapots on the windowsills, casting long shadows on the woodgrain. The air smelled like citrus peel, faint cinnamon, and steeped rooibos. It wasn’t trendy. It wasn’t moody. It was curated silence. Somewhere to exhale.

  Max sat back with their hoodie sleeves tugged over their thumbs, fingers tapping a rhythm against their knee beneath the table. Across from them, Sophie was reading the tea menu like it held secrets.

  She mouthed the names softly, as if testing the fvor before it reached her tongue. Her finger hovered over peach blossom, veered toward chamomile, then finally settled on something with cardamom and star anise.

  “Decisions, decisions,” she murmured, nose wrinkling. “What says ‘I’m charming but not unhinged?’”

  Max smirked, half into their water gss. “That ship’s long gone.”

  Sophie looked up, grinning. “Rude. I’ll have you know I’m only forty percent unhinged on weekdays. I saved my best hinge for you.”

  Max choked a little. “Please never say ‘best hinge’ again.”

  “Too te. Trademarked. You’ll see it on my stickers by Tuesday.”

  She folded the menu with a dramatic flick of the wrist. Her movements were natural, practiced in the way people become when they know they’ve been watched before and have decided to make it art.

  “You’re getting whatever the broodiest tea is,” she said, pointing a pretend wand in Max’s direction. “Something dark with undertones of emotional repression.”

  “Gunpowder green,” Max deadpanned. “Naturally.”

  Their drinks arrived shortly after, hers a pink bloom in porcein, fragrant with dried fruit and rose petals. Max’s, a moody cup of near-bck steam, intense and bitter in that way they didn’t bother pretending wasn’t on brand.

  Then came the part neither had fully rehearsed.

  The silence.

  Not awkward. Just deliberate. A pause with weight behind it. A pause that noticed it was being observed.

  Sophie held her cup with both hands, elbows tucked neatly to her sides. She sipped, and her lips curled faintly. Then she looked over the rim of her cup, just looked, unafraid to be caught.

  “You’re quieter than I expected,” she said softly. “Or maybe I’m louder than you expected.”

  “You’re exactly as loud as I expected,” Max replied. “You talked me into giving you a muffin with your eyebrows.”

  Sophie grinned. “That’s not even my strongest skill.”

  “Oh?” Max raised an eyebrow. “What is?”

  Sophie leaned in, not flirtatiously, not performatively, but like she meant it.

  “I’m really good at knowing when someone wants to be seen but doesn’t know how to ask for it.”

  Max blinked. Looked down. Their fingers curled around the cup until it warmed their knuckles. Their throat tightened, but they didn’t speak.

  Sophie, sensing the line had been touched, leaned back. Let the moment breathe.

  The conversation flowed again, this time with a lighter tone. They traded stories. Sophie’s brief but passionate defense of penne pasta. Max’s cim that farfalle was invented as a prank. A tangent about haunted IKEA furniture, and whether ghosts had aesthetic opinions. Laughter warmed the corners of the table.

  Somewhere in the drift, Sophie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, too casually:

  “You know, I kept checking my phone after muffin day.”

  Max blinked. “Yeah?”

  “I gave you my number, remember? And I told myself I wasn’t gonna be weird about it, but...”She stirred her tea once, then shrugged. “Turns out I’m a little weird about it.”

  Max tilted their head. “So you waited?”

  “Like a Victorian ghost haunting my notifications,” Sophie deadpanned. “You left me on ‘romantic read’.”

  Max covered their face with one hand. “God. I rewrote my message twelve times before sending it.”

  “Was it the moon emoji?” she asked, already grinning.

  Max groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

  “Nope,” Sophie said. “I screenshotted it.”

  Max stared. “You’re joking.”

  She sipped her tea. “I never joke about screenshots.”

  Max ughed. Genuinely. A ugh that surprised even them in its fullness.

  And Sophie’s face lit up like someone had turned on the inside of her. Not brighter, truer.

  For a second, Max forgot to be guarded. Forgot the hoodie. Forgot the mirror from earlier. They didn’t feel pretty. They didn’t feel masc. They just… felt.

  And it didn’t hurt.

  Not right now.

  Not here.

  Sophie looked at them with something steady, something that asked nothing and offered everything.

  And Max let themselves believe, if only for a moment, that this might be real.

  They stayed at the café longer than pnned. Long enough for Sophie to order a second cup and Max to nearly burn their tongue trying to sip away the tension. Outside, dusk had started its quiet descent, washing the street in vender and gold, like even the sky had slowed down to watch.

  By the time the teapots were empty, Sophie had started doodling on a napkin. Not because she was bored, Max could tell, but because she needed somewhere to put her hands, her eyes, her nerves. There were tiny stars in the corners, a round cat with disproportionately huge eyes, and something that looked suspiciously like Max’s boots, complete with the bit of scuff on the side.

  “You always draw while talking?” Max asked, their voice low.

  “Only when the conversation feels like it might matter,” she said, not looking up, her pen still sketching tiny consteltions.

  Max tilted their head. “Is that your version of flirting?”

  “No,” Sophie said. “That’s my version of coping. Flirting would be me saying you look like the vilin I’d romance in a graphic novel. But sure, let’s pretend it’s subtle.”

  Max snorted.

  Then Sophie did the thing Sophie did best.

  She just went there.

  “I’ve never really done this before,” she said softly.

  Max blinked. “Tea?”

  Sophie smiled. “No. Not tea. This. You. Us.”

  She twirled the pen in her fingers, suddenly shy, like she’d said too much and was waiting to see if the air would forgive her.

  “I mean, sure, I’ve dated. I’ve flirted. I’ve had my gay panic phase, my bi disaster phase, my maybe I’m a pnt sexual because everyone gives me anxiety phase…”

  Max ughed again, but it stuck a little in their throat.

  “…but this feels different,” Sophie continued. “And different is terrifying in the best and worst ways.”

  Max didn’t answer right away. Their hand was back on the cup again, thumb circling the rim. Nervous energy smoothed into mechanical motion. The muscles in their jaw flexed once, then stilled.

  Sophie picked up her napkin and held it out across the table. “Here.”

  Max took it with both hands, carefully. The sketch was unmistakable, cartoonish, a little messy, and absolutely them. Slouched. Hoodie drawn high around the face. Eyebrows sharp enough to cut rope. Around the head, a soft circle, half halo, half moon.

  “You made me into an emoji.”

  “I made you into a vibe,” Sophie corrected, gaze steady. “And you should know, I don’t doodle people unless I want to remember them.”

  Max folded the napkin too carefully, like it might fall apart or vanish.

  “You don’t know me that well,” they said, still not looking up.

  “Not yet,” Sophie said. “But I want to.”

  That nded like a small, soft thud in Max’s chest. A thud that stayed. That made room. That pressed against something sore and still said, 'I see you anyway. '

  Max looked up. And their voice was quieter when they answered:

  “Okay. Yeah.”

  Sophie smiled. Not bright. Not performative.

  Just... true.

  Then, as if she could feel the weight growing between them, she leaned back suddenly, shaking the moment like snow from her shoulders.

  “If you ghost me after this,” she said,” I’m mailing that napkin to your mother.”

  Max raised a brow. “Joke’s on you. I don’t talk to my mother.”

  Sophie’s eyes twinkled. “Even better. I’ll just tape it to your front door with glitter glue and a passive-aggressive note from the moon emoji.”

  Max stared at her for a beat. Then cracked, whole and real, ughing into their sleeve, head bowed, eyes soft.

  It felt good.

  It felt terrifying.

  It felt like something might actually happen.

  And for once, Max didn’t flinch at the thought.

  The sidewalk shimmered with leftover rain.

  It hadn’t poured, just that misty, half-hearted kind of drizzle that made the world look freshly glossed. The streetlights flickered on, zy and gold, catching in puddles like static. A breeze stirred the leaves along the curb as Max and Sophie walked shoulder to shoulder in the quiet stretch between the café and the tram stop.

  Neither of them was talking. Not out of awkwardness. Just… holding the moment.

  It had gone well.

  Really well.

  And now it teetered on the edge of something unspoken.

  Max’s hands were buried in their hoodie pockets, knuckles taut with fidget energy. Sophie was close, closer than before, arms swinging lightly at her sides, like her body already knew what her words hadn’t dared say yet.

  They stopped under a tree. Max could hear the drops still falling from the leaves above, tapping like a metronome on the sidewalk.

  Sophie turned to them with that soft little half-smile. The one that meant trouble. The one Max was starting to crave like oxygen.

  “So,” Sophie said, rocking on her heels. “About that kiss.”

  Max’s heart stopped. Just briefly. It stuttered like a misfired line of code.

  “I, I didn’t mean to,”

  “Oh no,” Sophie interrupted, ”I absolutely needed to be kissed.”

  Max blinked. “Wait… what?”

  Sophie tilted her head, her smile widening. “That kiss was great.”

  Max stared.

  “But,” Sophie held up a finger. “Technically, technically, I didn’t kiss you back.”

  Max narrowed their eyes, suspicious. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means,” Sophie said, stepping just a little closer,” that was a half kiss. And I don’t do things halfway.”

  Max’s throat went dry. “So…”

  “I propose,” Sophie said, hands now tucked behind her back, ”a do-over. When you’re ready. And when you do, I get to kiss you back.”

  Max opened their mouth. Nothing came out. Their brain was all static and hormones and soft pink chaos.

  “And,” Sophie added, tapping her chin, “we call this kiss zero. Prototype. Not for the history books.”

  “That’s cheating,” Max croaked.

  “That’s flirting,” Sophie said sweetly.

  Then, casually, as if it were nothing, as if it weren’t everything, she leaned in and bumped her shoulder into Max’s.

  Max stumbled, caught themselves, and turned their head just enough to look at her. Sophie was grinning.

  And Max, without thinking, licked her cheek.

  Sophie reeled back like she’d been zapped. “EXCUSE YOU.”

  Max shrugged, trying not to smile. “Didn’t want someone else ciming you.”

  “You licked me.”

  “A lick stakes a legitimate cim in the supreme court of pastries.”

  “For MUFFINS! That is not the same thing!”

  “Ownership ritual,” Max said, deadpan. “It’s sacred.”

  Sophie groaned, covering her face with both hands. “I was warned about queers like you.”

  Max leaned in slightly, just enough to whisper: “Still counts as half a kiss.”

  And Sophie, peeking through her fingers, said: “Half a kiss, full commitment. Just wait.”

  They didn’t kiss again, not yet.

  But when Max walked away, cheeks burning, Sophie stayed in pce just long enough to whisper to herself:

  “I like them. Oh, no.”

  And somewhere, Max was thinking the same thing.

  Max didn’t go straight home.

  They wandered first, through half-lit streets and crooked nes that smelled like damp brick and sweet exhaust, hoodie pulled tight against the chill. The world felt a little too quiet, like it was waiting to see what they’d do next.

  Their heart hadn’t slowed.

  It beat like it didn’t understand what had just happened. Like it wasn’t sure if it had been a threat or a promise.

  Half a kiss.

  No, kiss zero.

  Max kept repying it: Sophie’s grin, the way she leaned in like she already knew what Max was too afraid to admit, and that damn line, full commitment. Just wait.

  It should have terrified them.

  It did.

  But also...

  Their fingers curled in their pocket around the folded napkin sketch. The moon emoji is still pinned at the top of their messages. A consteltion of soft chaos, mapping something Max had never thought they’d feel again.

  Not trust. Not yet.

  But the possibility.

  They reached the front steps of their building and paused. The keys felt heavy in their hand.

  The phone buzzed.

  Sophie:

  Half kiss. Still thinking about it.Still counting on the do-over. No pressure. Just pinky promise.

  Max stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering.

  Then they typed, slowly:

  Max:

  Next time… I might be brave enough to kiss you first.

  They hit send.

  And this time, they didn’t immediately regret it.