Max was slicing audio again. Or pretending to.
They were back in their work nook: second floor of a crooked townhouse soon to be fully renovated, with terrible insulation 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-collapsed against the wall.
Max hadn’t unpacked properly, still. The place was theirs only in the sense that no one else was using it at the time. Leif had offered it, one of his many “unoccupied” properties scattered through the Netherlands like breadcrumbs. But Max had moved in, not settled in.
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 replaying 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 the other metaphorically arched across the astral plane.
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 was definitely not tea.
“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 still trying to impress dinner guests.” He took a slow sip. “So. Who are they?”
A slight pause as Leif tries again.
“He?”
1 Mississippi… 2 Mississippi…
“…She?”
Leif was clearly on a fishing expedition.
Max froze. Just enough to be noticeable when Leif gets 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 replays 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. Twitter, 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 was still the frog with a tiara, but her feed was filled with sunlight, messy desks, tea in mismatched cups, and little 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.
Regret.
Absolute, soul-splitting, what did I just do regret.
They tossed the phone face down on the desk and muttered something halfway between a prayer and a swear and waited.
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 so fast she nearly knocked over her tea (chamomile, steeped too long), then stared at her phone again as if it might disappear. It was real. It had happened.
Max had texted.
She dropped the phone, picked it up again, and screamed silently into her pillow.
Then:
Sophie:
OKAY OKAY HOW DO I ANSWER
She typed that into the chat with Juno before realizing it 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-class 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.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Max was still staring at their phone as if it owed them an explanation.
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 villain
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 splayed 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 launched 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 laugh 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 last line like it had been engineered in a lab 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 last one
This is why I shouldn’t text after caffeine)
Phone in lap. Stomach doing Olympic-level flips.
They were halfway through regretting everything when another buzz hit.
Sophie had been dramatically reading Max’s last 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 language.
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 late. 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 laminating 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 place, 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 laminating 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 laminate 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-related 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 laminate 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-related 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 launched a message to Juno:
Sophie:
They offered fridge rights
They want to go to a bookstore.
Do you think it’s too soon to plan 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 blanket like a cinnamon bun of glee, and let the feeling swallow her whole.
Upstairs, Max sat frozen. Not in dread. Not even panic.
Just stunned.
They were still staring at Sophie’s last 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 late.”
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.”
“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. His eyes gleamed 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.
