Max was slicing audio again. Or pretending to.

  They were back in their work nook: ground floor of a crooked townhouse soon to be fully renovated into a living room/library, with terrible insution and better light than they deserved. The floor creaked when you breathed too hard, and the radiator clicked like it had opinions. A portable green screen leaned half-colpsed against the wall.

  With the renovation in mind, Max hadn’t set up properly. The pce was theirs only in the sense that no one else was using it at the time. Leif had suggested it, for now, until they got the studio in the basement set up properly, but Max had started to like the spot—for now, it worked. They doubted they’d use the studio much once it was done—maybe just for serious editing. This nook had them written all over it.

  The YouTube channel, Echoes of Yggdrasil, was supposed to be their focus today. Max had two scripts in revision, four videos in the queue, and a draft thumbnail with the working title: “Hel: Norse Afterlife, Not Christian Purgatory”.

  But instead of editing, they were stuck repying the same clip over and over again.

  A pause.

  Rewind.

  Click.

  “…Hel is not the same as,”

  Click.

  Rewind.

  Click.

  “…Hel is not,”

  A creak on the stairs.

  Max didn’t look up.

  Another creak. Deliberate. Familiar.

  Leif appeared in the doorway like he’d always been there, leaning against the frame with one eyebrow raised and another metaphorically arched across the astral pne.

  He wore a coat that he could have stolen from a history teacher or a thrift store; it was hard to say. In one hand: a cup of something steaming and fragrant that definitely wasn’t tea.Max didn’t want to know. The metallic scent, reminding them of iron, told them what it was. Their lizard brain promptly edited it out of existence. It was a drink. Period.

  “You’re brooding,” Leif observed, tone maddeningly casual.

  Max didn’t turn around. “I’m editing.”

  Leif stepped inside, silent as fog, and perched on the edge of a battered armchair like a raven choosing a high branch. “Mmm. Yes. By repeatedly slicing the same three seconds of dialogue until even the algorithm will lose the will to live.”

  Max sighed. “Do you need something?”

  “No,” Leif said, stirring his cup. “Just watching the strange shift in your internal gravity.”

  Max paused.

  Leif smiled, bright, sharp, and just this side of mischievous.

  “You smell like sunshine and confusion,” he said. “It’s new. Not unpleasant. You’re quite radiant when your brain is glitching.”

  Max finally turned. “You’re not subtle.”

  “I am older than subtlety. Subtlety is for those trying to impress dinner guests.” He took a slow sip. “So. Who are they?”

  A slight pause as Leif tried again.

  “He?”

  1 Mississippi… 2 Mississippi…

  “…She?”

  Leif was clearly on a fishing expedition.

  But still Max twitched, just enough to be noticeable when Leif got at ‘she’.

  Leif’s smile widened like a crescent moon. “Ah. A her. Good. My odds were 40/30/30. Could’ve been a fox, or someone named Vesper.”

  Max looked back at the screen. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing doesn’t shift orbit,” Leif said, stretching out his legs. “Nothing doesn’t hum like a freshly tuned string.”

  Max rolled their eyes. “It’s not a thing. We talked. We shared a muffin. She sketched my earring and named her candle ‘Forest Witch’s Softboy’.”

  Leif nodded solemnly. “Yes. Utterly inconsequential. Definitely not the kind of thing one repys mentally during editing sessions.”

  Max didn’t answer.

  Leif stood, coat rustling like dry leaves. He tapped the edge of Max’s chair as he passed.

  “Just promise me, when you marry her and bring her to one of these dusty old rooms, don’t let her rearrange my books.”

  “She’s not…” Max began.

  “K-I-S-S-I-N-G,” Leif sang, off-tune and off-tempo, as he descended the stairs with eerie grace.

  Max waited until the door creaked shut behind him.

  Then, and only then, did they pull the scrap of paper from their jacket pocket.

  Still folded.

  Still real.

  Max stared at the screen for another full minute. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

  Then they sighed, one of those full-body, I hate that he’s right sighs, and reached into their jacket for the folded scrap of paper. Sophie’s number. Still neat. Still crisp. Still terrifying.

  They unfolded it with the same care someone might give to a spell scroll or a hand grenade.

  A simple number, scrawled in dark ink with just a hint of a flourish. The dot over the i in Meissonier was, of course, a tiny heart. Max both hated and adored that.

  They pulled out their phone and tapped the number into a new contact.

  Sophie.No emoji. Yet.

  They didn’t hit “Save” immediately.

  Instead, they opened a new browser window. Incognito tab. Just in case.

  Sophie Meissonier. Haarlem. Illustration.

  Social media popped up like mushrooms in a fairy circle. Instagram. ArtStation. A TikTok account she hadn’t used in months. X, mostly dead memes, and deeply specific reactions to shows Max didn’t watch. But it was her. All her.

  Sophie Meissonier was the real deal.

  Max clicked through her Instagram, the most active of the bunch. Her profile picture featured a frog wearing a tiara, but her feed was filled with sunlight, messy desks, tea in mismatched cups, and short videos of her sketching in cafes.

  They paused at one post.

  A close-up of a sketchbook page: a raven perched on a windowsill, stylized just enough to make Max’s stomach flutter. The caption read: “I keep drawing him and I don’t even know him yet. Rude.”

  Max recognized the angle.

  It was their window at the cafe.

  They swallowed, closed the tab, and opened another, one that didn’t belong to Sophie, but gave access to her locked stuff. Their fingers hovered.

  One click, and they’d see the DMs, the private story—the messy, unfiltered version.

  They didn’t click.

  Instead, they opened Messages.

  Typed:

  Hey. It’s Max. From the café. The muffin one.

  Deleted.

  Hey. I’ve been thinking about you. About frogs in crowns. And muffins, and bad candle names.

  Deleted.

  Hi. I wasn’t going to text, but you stuck.

  Deleted.

  Finally, defeated, exhausted, a little raw, they typed:

  Max:

  Hey. Is this still you? :)

  Sent...

  …followed by immediate chest-tightening, ‘don’t look at the message’ regret.

  They dropped the phone face down on the desk like it had personally betrayed them and muttered something halfway between a prayer and a swear.

  Sophie stared at the message.

  One line. Casual. Friendly. Borderline boring.

  And somehow it made her feel like she was going to explode into glitter.

  She sat up too fast and nearly spilled her tea. Stared at the phone.It was real. Max had texted.Her heart thumped once—hard—like her entire body had just remembered how to be seventeen again.She dropped the phone, picked it up again, and buried her face in her pillow with a muffled, chaotic shriek.

  Then:

  Sophie:

  OKAY OKAY HOW DO I ANSWER

  She typed that into the chat with Juno before realizing she hadn’t checked if this wasn’t Max’s window.

  Thank God.

  Juno:

  breathe say hi be hot be chaotic be YOU

  Sophie:

  I can’t be hot AND chaotic That’s a dual-css build, and I haven’t leveled up yet

  Juno:

  Girl, you’re already chaotic hot Max is the broody wizard you’re about to romance through 10 hours of side quests

  Sophie:

  okay okay okay okay

  Back to Max’s message.

  Sophie hovered her thumbs above the keyboard.

  Typed.

  Deleted.

  Typed again.

  Paused to scream softly.

  Then, finally sent:

  Sophie:

  It is! Unless this is a very advanced muffin-based phishing scam In which case: rude but also effective

  Three dots.

  Appeared.

  Disappeared.

  Appeared again.

  Max was typing.

  Sophie squeaked and flopped face-first into the bed, phone clutched to her chest like a sacred relic.

  Then, ping.

  Max was staring at their phone as if it owed them an expnation.

  They hadn’t moved since hitting send. Not really. Just hunched a little deeper into their hoodie, one hand frozen on the mouse, pretending they were working on a thumbnail. The file they were supposedly editing was now titled:

  maxstopbeingweird.psd

  When the phone buzzed, Max nearly dropped it.

  Sophie:

  It is! Unless this is a very advanced muffin-based phishing scam In which case: rude but also effective

  Max stared.

  The corner of their mouth lifted. She was funny. Like, actually funny. Not trying-too-hard funny. Not internet-loud funny. Just... Funny. Soft, sassy, and a little absurd.

  They started typing.

  Stopped.

  Deleted everything.

  Started again.

  Max:

  Pretty advanced scam. Next step is to lure you into an emotional entanglement. Possibly involving scones.

  Three dots.

  They hit send and immediately buried their face in their arm.

  They hated themselves.

  But also not that much.

  The phone pinged again.

  Sophie:

  You absolute vilin Is this a long con? Are you gonna ask me for my favorite tea and then never call again??

  Max typed without thinking:

  Max:

  If I ask your favorite tea, it’s only so I know what to bring on the second date.

  Sent.

  They froze.

  They had not meant to type “second date.”

  They had not meant to imply there had been a first.

  They had not meant to flirt.

  But it was out there now.

  And in the breathless, silent moment afterward, Max realized,

  They hoped she'd flirt back.

  Sophie’s phone buzzed.

  She was still lying face-down on the pillow, limbs spyed like a crime scene. She peeked out one eye, saw the notification, and promptly flopped onto her back with the grace of a dying starfish.

  Max:

  If I ask your favorite tea, it’s only so I know what to bring on the second date.

  Her soul levitated.

  She let out a noise that was half gasp, half dolphin squeal.

  Then unched into WhatsApp like she was breaching hyperspace:

  Sophie:

  JUNO JUNO I THINK MAX JUST ASKED ME OUT AND I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE TO SET SOMETHING ON FIRE FIRST ACCIDENTALLY

  Juno:

  Show me the message I must verify the queerness.

  Sophie copy-pasted.Waited.

  Juno:

  okay yeah confirmed That is some premium nonbinary courtship. tea and emotional precision You’re doomed ????

  Sophie screamed into her duvet, then flipped back to Max’s chat, thumbs shaking.

  Okay. Okay.

  Be cool.

  Be funny.

  Be the kind of person Max would bring tea to on purpose.

  She typed:

  Sophie:

  Bold of you to assume there’s a second date I might be a siren leading you to your doom. Or worse: a libra

  Three dots. Max was already typing.

  Before they could respond, she added:

  Sophie:

  (It’s peppermint, by the way. I like tea that kicks you in the lungs.)

  Max let out a breath somewhere between a ugh and a whimper.

  Sophie:

  Bold of you to assume there’s a second date I might be a siren leading you to your doom. Or worse: a libra

  Max blinked at the screen, a grin tugging at their mouth against their better judgment.

  Then,

  Sophie:

  (It’s peppermint, by the way. I like tea that kicks you in the lungs.)

  Max stared at that st line like it had been engineered in a b specifically to short-circuit their composure.

  They put their phone down. Stared at the ceiling.

  Peppermint. Sirens. Doom.

  She's perfect.

  And worse, she's into me.

  Max picked the phone back up and typed:

  Max:

  Honestly, peppermint tea feels emotionally aggressive, so I respect that Also, if you are a siren, I’m already halfway into the ocean, and I brought snacks.

  They paused. Looked at the message.

  Smirked.

  Hit send.

  Then added:

  Max:

  (and for the record I’d risk the rocks again. For that muffin And maybe for you If that’s not too much too soon)

  Immediately followed by:

  Max:

  (Okay, maybe delete that st one This is why I shouldn’t text after caffeine)

  Phone in p. Stomach doing Olympic-level flips.

  They were halfway through regretting everything when another buzz hit.

  Sophie had been dramatically reading Max’s st message out loud to Juno via voice note when the second one came through.

  She stopped mid-sentence.

  Squinted.

  Re-read.

  Squealed.

  Then immediately texted Juno in all caps.

  Sophie:

  THEY SAID MAYBE FOR YOU FOR ME JUNO WHAT DO I DO WHAT IF I BURST INTO FLAME WHAT IF I’M SUPPOSED TO PLAY IT COOL BUT I JUST START SENDING COW GIFS

  Juno:

  Cow gifs are valid Cow gifs are love Cow gifs are your love nguage.

  Sophie:

  JUNO THIS IS NOT A DRILL

  She opened Max’s chat again. The follow-up message tried to walk it back, sure, but it was too te. Sophie had already spun it into a mental romcom where she dropped her books in the hallway and Max picked them up while dramatically reciting runes.

  She inhaled, steadied her thumbs, and typed:

  Sophie:

  Too much, too soon? Max. I sketched your earrings before I knew your name. I’m already in the ocean, and I don’t even swim. Bring snacks. Bring tea. Maybe bring a life vest just in case

  Sent.

  She waited one beat. Then added:

  Sophie:

  (also no backsies on the maybe for me I’m minating it and putting it on my fridge)

  Max was halfway through biting a thumbnail down to nothing when Sophie’s reply lit up their screen like divine judgment wrapped in stickers and glitter glue.

  Sophie:

  Too much, too soon? Max. I sketched your earrings before I knew your name. I’m already in the ocean, and I don’t even swim. Bring snacks. Bring tea. Maybe bring a life vest just in case

  Max blinked. Once. Twice.

  Then exhaled like they’d been holding their breath since the dawn of time.

  They leaned back in their chair, frozen in pce, as if the room might offer a confession before they did..

  She’s gonna kill me.

  Not with malice. Not with sharp teeth or betrayal.

  With sincerity.

  With honesty at full volume.

  With... her.

  And just as Max was starting to mentally prepare for what it might mean actually to want someone like this, the second message came through.

  Sophie:

  (also no backsies on the maybe for me I’m minating it and putting it on my fridge)

  Max groaned aloud.

  Covered their face.

  Muffled into their palm: “I am so screwed.”

  They opened her chat again.

  Typed.

  Deleted.

  Typed again.

  Deleted harder.

  Finally:

  Max:

  Okay, but if you minate it, I demand visitation rights and fridge space and possibly tea privileges

  They hesitated, then added:

  Max:

  actually How do you feel about second dates involving bookstores and peppermint-reted vengeance?

  Finger hovered.

  Pressed send.

  Then Max sat there, head spinning, heart on fire, and, against every protective instinct they’d ever honed, hoping.

  When the following message arrived, Sophie didn’t scream.

  She levitated.

  Max:

  Okay, but if you minate it, I demand visitation rights. and fridge space and possibly tea privileges

  Max:

  actually How do you feel about second dates involving bookstores and peppermint-reted vengeance?

  She stared.

  Then clutched the phone to her chest like it was a rare artifact charged with ancient romantic energy.

  Then rolled violently back and forth on her bed while whisper-squealing:“Bookstores. Bookstores. BOOKSTORES. Oh my god, they want to see me again and possibly enter a domestic arrangement involving tea.”

  She bolted upright and unched a message to Juno:

  Sophie:

  They offered fridge rights They want to go to a bookstore. Do you think it’s too soon to pn our matching hoodies?

  Juno:

  too soon Unless the hoodies are cursed Then it’s lesbian standard timeline.

  Sophie:

  God, I’m in so much trouble This is worse than the cinnamon roll incident

  She flipped back to Max’s chat.

  Paused.

  Grinned.

  And typed:

  Sophie:

  Tea privileges are granted Fridge rights must be earned. Bookstore vengeance is non-negotiable. Pick a day And maybe wear those earrings again. They’re already in chapter 3 of my sketchbook

  Sent.

  Then she tossed the phone onto the bed, rolled into her bnket like a cinnamon bun of glee, and let the feeling swallow her whole.

  In their temporary workspace, Max sat frozen. Not in dread. Not even panic.Just stunned.

  They hadn’t looked away from Sophie’s st message—They’re already in chapter 3 of my sketchbook—when the air behind them shifted.Again.

  “You’re humming,” said a voice like velvet draped over knives.

  Max jumped. “Jesus, Leif, how do you move like that?”

  “I don’t. You merely noticed te.”

  He was leaning in the doorway again, arms folded. One of his rings glinted, a raven, wings outstretched.

  Max didn’t respond. Just turned back to their screen.

  “You’re glowing,” Leif added, voice softer now. Not teasing. Not accusatory. Just... wondering.

  Max bristled. “I am not.”It made them want to hide. Or confess something. Or maybe both.

  “You are. It’s like watching a dying star spark back to life.”

  Max rolled their eyes. “Don’t get poetic about it.”

  “I’m not poetic,” Leif said mildly. “I’m mythic. Big difference.”

  Max snorted. “You’re impossible.”

  Leif tilted his head, eyes gleaming just slightly. “It’s nice. You like this. I haven’t seen you open in… well, I don't know. Ever.”

  Max looked down.

  There was a long pause—a gentle one.

  Then Max spoke, voice quiet.

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  Leif gave a small, crooked smile.

  “Everything starts as nothing,” he said, turning toward the stairs again. “It’s the stories we tell after that matter.”

  And with a whisper of wool and silence, he was gone.

  Max sat alone again.

  However, it didn’t feel the same as before.

  They looked at their phone.At Sophie’s message.

  Smiled—just a little.

  And finally, finally, closed the editing software.