Before Mira can answer, a sharp knock echoes through the room.

  “Mira? You in there?” Camille’s voice rings, followed by Luca’s unmistakable laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re asleep already—we brought snacks!”

  The spell breaks instantly.

  Mira’s eyes fly wide.

  Elara’s voice joins in. “If you don’t open up in five seconds, I’m picking the lock again.”

  Mira whirls toward Adrian. “Adrian. You can’t be here. I mean—you are here, but you can’t be seen here!”

  Adrian, impossibly calm, doesn’t so much as blink. “Then I’ll leave.”

  “No time!” she hisses, already half on her feet. “They’re right outside!”

  Another knock follows, playful and drawn out. “Miraaaa.”

  “Please—just this once.” She grabs his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong as she drags him toward the closet in a rush. “If they see you in here—like this—I will actually evaporate into sparkles and die.”

  Adrian blinks. “Mira—”

  He remains impossibly calm, watching Mira's eyes change from romantic fluster to genuine alarm. To him, the intrusion is a nuisance—a variable he hadn't accounted for—but her distress is a command. She is completely serious, her face flushed and her hair mussed, and for her sake, he steps into the narrow darkness of the closet.

  The closet door clicks, leaving only a sliver of light. The silence of the room feels heavy, charged with the ghost of the conversation they just had. Mira's heart flips hard in her chest. She hasn’t said a word about being back, purposefully ghosting the group chat just to stay invisible, and the thought of her friends catching a man like Adrian in her room sends a jolt of pure terror through her.

  “I’m here!” she calls, her voice pitching higher than she means. “Bathroom! Just a minute!” She snatches up his shoes and shoves them under the bed.

  “Suspicious,” Luca sing-songs from the hall.

  Mira finally reaches for the door.

  “Hey, guys.”

  She barely has time to settle before Camille and the others spill into her room, their familiar energy both grounding and overwhelming.

  Luca closes his eyes, taking a deep, exaggerated sniff of the air. "Whoa, smells incredible. Did you make hotpot?" He glances around the room, confused. "Wait, where is it? I thought you were cooking for us?"

  Mira stands frozen by the door, looking completely guilty as Camille and Elara wait for her to speak. "No—I mean, yeah, I just wanted a change of pace for dinner," she stammers. "Just some quick instant noodles and greens. Nothing special."

  "And where did you vanish to this weekend?" Camille asks.

  The room falls silent.

  "So," Luca says, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms. "Are you going to tell us what’s up, or do we have to start guessing?"

  "You’ve been acting strange lately," Elara says, her voice a mix of concern and accusation. "Are we actually friends, Mira?"

  Mira blinks at the sudden shift in tone. "What? Of course we are."

  "Then why are you keeping secrets from us?" Elara’s voice hardens. "About Adrian?"

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mira says.

  Camille lets out an exasperated sigh. "Then explain the disappearing acts. Why are you gatekeeping the fact that you’re dating Adrian? We’ve been shipping this since day one, and now we find out the ship has already sailed and we’re the last ones left on the dock?"

  “We are not…” She hasn't even had the chance to finish her sentence when Luca puts his pointing finger to her lips, cutting her off.

  “We ran into Clara this afternoon, Mira. She already told us everything.”

  Before Mira can find her voice, Camille pulls her into a tight hug. "You silly girl! Why didn't you just tell us you have love phobia and Adrian is helping you work through it?"

  Mira stands there, completely thrown, her eyes darting to Luca and Elara who are already making themselves at home on her bed. She thinks, her mind racing.

  Luca’s voice rings out from behind Camille. "Have you guys kissed yet?"

  Mira’s face flushes a deep red as she shakes her head.

  “Sleeping?” Luca presses.

  Mira jolts, grabbing a pillow and smacking him with it. “LUCA! Asking nonsense one more time and I’m kicking you out!”

  She can’t exactly tell them the truth—that they literally slept, and slept, in the same bed—because there’s no way to explain that. That definitely isn't what they mean by "sleeping together."

  Camille senses the awkwardness and quickly pivots, changing the subject. "Okay, so how is it then? What’s it actually like dating Adrian?"

  Mira freezes.

  Her mind spirals back to the so-called "date"—which is less of a date and more of a controlled social experiment on Adrian’s part.

  Mira almost laughs at the absurdity of it. If only they knew.

  How is she supposed to explain that what her friends think is a date is actually a rambling conversation about the strategy of antlions, and—at one point—whether ducks would be better off if their “buttquack” was louder than their regular quack?

  "We just ate out," she mutters. "Some bread. Sweet cake—my favorite."

  Luca lets out a dramatic, bone-weary sigh, clutching his stomach while he sits among the girls. "Then did you leave anything left for your poor, starving friends? Because I’m about to pass out."

  He pushes himself up from the mattress and pivots in the cramped space, reaching for the fridge handle before Mira can even think of a way to stop him. He yanks the door open, but the moment the light hits the contents, he lets out a genuine scream of shock.

  "Wow!" Luca yells, spinning back toward Mira and the rest of the group with an accusing finger pointed at the shelves. "Adrian clearly makes sure you won't skip a meal and starve! This stock is enough to feed all of us for an entire week!"

  He starts yanking containers out in a daze, holding them up like trophies for the girls to see. "Individual Tiramisus? New York cheesecake? Raspberry-pistachio muffins, lemon tarts... he even bought the imported cherries?" He slams the door shut, looking like he’s just witnessed a miracle or a crime. He stares her down, his hunger replaced by intense, nosy curiosity. "Now tell us the truth. Did he just stay here and have dinner with you, too?"

  Mira feels all eyes on her, the weight of their combined silence demanding an answer she doesn't have. Her friends lean forward, their expressions a mix of awe and sharp suspicion as they wait for her to explain the sudden appearance of a gourmet bakery in her kitchenette.

  Before she can even open her mouth to stammer out a lie, Luca leans back dramatically against her desk, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Plot twist,” he announces, his voice dropping into a theatrical stage whisper. “He didn’t just have dinner. He’s still here. Hiding. Right. Now.”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “Don’t be ridiculous—” Mira starts, but her voice wavers.

  “Where would he hide, though?” Elara muses, glancing around. “Under the bed? No, too obvious. Behind the curtains? Hmm… the closet, maybe?”

  Camille covers her mouth, eyes gleaming. “Mira, don’t tell me you’re pulling a reverse-campus-romance move and hiding a real-life Adrian Vale in your closet.”

  Laughter bursts instantly, filling every corner of the room.

  “Wh—That’s not even—You guys—” she stammers, trying to laugh but sounding more like a boiling kettle. “You’ve been watching too many dramas again. No one is in my closet. Are you even hearing yourselves?”

  “Elara, check it,” Luca stage-whispers. “Slowly. Don’t startle the rare species.”

  Inside the closet, Adrian—motionless, half-kneeling in the cramped space—listens to every word. The scent of Mira’s coats surrounds him. Something sequined brushes against his elbow. He can hear her heartbeat in her voice, the restless rise and fall of it. He pictures the way her eyes must be darting, the heat in her cheeks when she’s cornered.

  Elara grins but doesn’t move.

  Then the three of them burst out laughing at the same time.

  "Seriously though, do you need dating advice, Mira?" Luca asks.

  Mira smirks with a relief. "From a guy who’s never dated anyone?"

  Luca pulls a face, looking hilariously frustrated. "I feel really offended, Mira. That's a low blow."

  Mira laughs. "Fine. How are things with Vincent?"

  Luca looks up at the ceiling, his shoulders dropping. "Nothing. We’re just working on the same movie project. He only has one year until graduation and already has a full-time job offer. He’s so successful that even standing near him as a freshman stresses me out."

  Mira pats his shoulder. "You're excellent too, Luca. Didn't you make such an incredible movie that even Vincent had to approach you and ask you to team up with him? You're just younger than him, that's all. There's nothing to worry about."

  Luca lets out a long, dramatic sigh. "Easy for you to say. You're out here dating the campus legend while I'm just trying not to trip over my own feet during production meetings."

  Mira shakes her head and laughs. "If Vincent stressed you out, then I should have just vanished standing next to Adrian Vale, the untouchable genius."

  The words land heavier than she intended. As the sound of her own voice fades, she catches herself. She isn't just offering Luca a comparison; she’s pinpointing the exact shape of her own insecurity.

  Mira turns to Camille, shaking off the weight of her thoughts. "How are you and Noah? Any progress?"

  Camille just smiles, a relaxed and easy expression. "Progress? We’re just dating like any normal human, Mira. "

  Luca lets out a short laugh, shaking his head at Mira's confusion. "They’ve already kissed and dated.” He pauses, his eyes bright with gossip. "Actually, Naomi and Elias also have their first date today, too. You already missed many things, Mira."

  Mira tries to keep her expression neutral, but her smile feels stiff and artificial. She feels a strange, aching hollowness in her chest; if "normal" people are out in the light, kissing and being seen, then what is she? She’s a girl hiding her first love in a closet, trapped in a relationship that feels like a high-stakes secret.

  Luca’s laugh makes her feel small, as if she’s a child who missed a crucial lesson in how to be a person. She wants to snap back, to insist that her night has been anything but "missing out," but the words stay locked behind her teeth. She just sits there, feeling the weight of her own abnormality, while the man she is falling for listens to her being teased for her lack of progress.

  Elara adds with playful ease, “Alright, Mira—be honest. Rate your feelings for Adrian, one to ten.”

  Mira hesitates, unsure how to respond. She glances at her friends, the heat in her cheeks climbing higher. After a moment of silence, she slowly lifts her hand and holds up six fingers.

  Inside the closet, Adrian Vale—the Academy’s golden prodigy, top of every metric chart, the terrifyingly competent, untouchably elegant genius—freezes in place, half-kneeling among Mira’s scarves and lavender-scented chaos, feeling… breathless.

  He doesn’t lean closer—of course, he doesn’t. He has dignity. But every part of him is tuned in, absurdly invested, like some over-programmed field bot waiting for a signal.

  Adrian closes his eyes, running calculations in the dark.

  Outside, Luca, ever the playful one, pounces immediately. “Look at her! I think it’s more like a nine already,” he teases, gently pulling out three more fingers from her hand. “And we’re just waiting for that last one to come out so you can finally admit it!”

  The group laughs, the sound light and warm, carrying protective affection that somehow makes Mira feel both awkward and comforted.

  Adrian’s eyes snap open. What number? What did she show? Did she mouth something? Why aren’t they narrating with precision?

  He stares blankly at a fuzzy pink coat sleeve dangling near his ear, as if it holds the answer.

  Outside, the group is still laughing.

  Inside, Adrian whispers under his breath, almost inaudible:

  “…Unbelievable.”

  And still, he listens. Every nerve alert, every breath drawn tight.

  Because somehow, this matters more than anything he has ever calculated.

  ?

  The door closes behind her friends, leaving the room suspended in a hush that feels far too deep. Mira stands in the center of it, motionless, her ears still echoing with laughter and teasing and the distant shuffle of footsteps fading down the corridor.

  Slowly, she turns toward the closet.

  She hesitates for just a moment, her hand hovering over the handle, her pulse thrumming loud in her ears. He has heard everything—everything. Every teasing word, every question.

  The closet door creaks open.

  Adrian is still inside.

  Cramped, impossibly tall for the space, half-bent and tangled somewhere between a long coat and the edge of a shelf, he looks like a misplaced sculpture in the middle of a linen storm. His golden eyes meet hers immediately. He doesn’t speak. Neither does she.

  For a long, long second, they simply stand in the thick of it—that heavy, aching stillness between two people who have come right to the edge of something but cannot yet find the courage to cross.

  Then he shifts slightly, trying to straighten, and Mira notices it—the wince. The sharp intake of breath. She moves instinctively, reaching forward. “Wait—don’t—your legs—”

  But it is too late.

  One step out of the cramped space is all it takes for gravity to reclaim its power. Adrian’s knees, numb from too long in the tight space, give without warning. His balance tips, and before either of them can stop it, momentum carries him forward—straight into Mira.

  They collide with an awkward gasp, limbs tangling, and crash sideways onto the bed. Mira lets out a soft yelp as she lands, half-pinned beneath the weight of Adrian’s shoulder and arm. Her legs remain tangled in the blanket, which twists mid-fall and now wraps around her knees like a makeshift knot.

  And then—they stop moving.

  Adrian’s hand braces instinctively on the mattress beside her head, steadying his fall, while the other hovers awkwardly against her waist, fingertips brushing her side through the thin fabric of her shirt. Mira’s palm is splayed across his chest, right over where she can feel the rise and fall of his breathing—slower than hers but tight with restraint. Her hair falls across her cheek.

  Their eyes meet—too close, too sharp. Mira can see the pale gold flecks in his irises, the crease in his brow that appears only when he doesn’t know what to do with what he is feeling. Adrian, for his part, goes very still, focused entirely on the girl beneath him.

  And then—

  Mira’s gaze flicks upward.

  Her pupils dilate. Her breath catches in her throat.

  Adrian feels it instantly—the change in her body, the jolt of mortified recognition before her expression even forms the reaction. Slowly, cautiously, his eyes follow hers.

  He doesn’t have to search far.

  Dangling from the edge of his shoulder, caught delicately on the fold of his collar like a war trophy from the universe itself, is a tiny pink lace-trimmed undergarment snagged in the fall and now swaying slightly as if in mock salute.

  For a full heartbeat, neither of them moves.

  Then Mira lets out a barely audible, strangled sound—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper—and in that instant, her entire body floods with a heat so intense it might as well be magic.

  Because it is.

  With a shimmer and a sudden pop of displaced air, she vanishes.

  Adrian blinks, then looks down slowly.

  There, perched near the blanket, lies a two-inch-tall Mira, frozen, her face buried in her hands, shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear even further into herself.

  He stares for a moment, the absurdity of the scene settles over him like fog.

  Then, without lifting his arm or changing his posture, he reaches over with measured care, picks up the pink scrap of lace between two fingers, and places it gently, wordlessly, on the nightstand.

  “Mira. I—”

  “No,” she says immediately, her voice tiny and high but commanding. “Don’t.”

  Hiding amid the folds of the blanket like a miniature thundercloud of humiliation is tiny Mira—face glowing red even beneath her hands, breath coming in rapid, stunned bursts. Her shoulders hunch, her hair sticks in every direction, her magic still crackles faintly around her in twitching sparks.

  “Don’t say anything. Don’t—don’t explain, don’t try to be kind, don’t analyze whatever this is. Just—” her voice cracks, too many emotions whirling inside her to contain, “for the love of the stars and all fungal species—just. Go. Out. Please. Leave me alone.”

  Her face burns. Her knees feel weak. If she could shrink again, she would—straight through the floor, out the dorm, into the stratosphere.

  Adrian watches her for one long second more while his mind struggles with the sudden complexity of the moment. He observes the soft luminescence of her form beneath the blanket, and although logic dictates his immediate departure, a sense of profound concern makes the action difficult. He places the scrap of her tiny dress before he finally turns away.

  “I will come back later.” He says, his voice carrying a genuine weight of care. "Good night, Mira."

  But Mira doesn’t hear anything anymore.

  The tiny Mira sits alone on her bed, wrapped in a storm of magic and mortification, praying the walls might swallow her whole.

  And so the first day of the new agreement finds its ending, as fairy tales often do—sideways.

  The spell stays, comfortably convinces itself that it is doing excellent work.

  ?