“How about…” She pauses for dramatic effect, then grins wickedly. “‘Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.’”

I groan, grabbing a couch cushion and smothering my face with it. “Celeste, no.”

“Come on!” She sings songs, waving my phone in front of me like a carrot on a stick. “It’s cheesy, it’s adorable, and it’ll totally break the ice.”

I reach for the phone, but she jerks it out of my grasp, her expression innocent despite the fact that she’s actively holding my social life hostage.

“Celeste…” I warn.

“Selene,” she mimics, her voice dripping with faux seriousness. “Trust me. He’ll love it.”

I glare at her. She grins wider. I hate that she’s probably right.

Snatching my phone back, I stare at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is a mistake. This is such a mistake.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter.

“You’re doing this,” Celeste confirms, entirely too pleased with herself.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I type out the message and hit send.

And then I throw my phone across the couch like it’s suddenly radioactive.

Me: Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.

We stare at my phone in silence, the seconds dragging like hours. This was a mistake. A catastrophic, world-ending mistake. Maybe if I delete my number and move to another country before he reads it, I can escape the shame.

Then—my phone buzzes.

Theo: That depends, who is this?

Celeste bursts out laughing, clapping her hands like a delighted seal. “He doesn’t even know it’s you.”

“Oh no,” I whisper, staring at the screen in horror. This is it. This is my villain origin story. “What do I do now?”

“Tell him it’s you!” she says, nudging me. “Or keep him guessing. Either way, he replied, so you’re already winning.”

I chew my lip, debating. If I tell him right away, it’ll be normal. Predictable. Safe. But if I play along a little longer…

I quickly type a response.

Me: Someone who’s heard you have moves in the kitchen. Care to show me?

His reply is almost immediate.

Theo: So you’re trying to see my baguette? Bold. But just so we’re clear—there will be zero painting tutorials involved this time.

I let out an embarrassing snort, and Celeste grabs my arm, practically vibrating. “Wait—what does that mean?”

I launch into the full, fantastic retelling of our first date—the Bob Ross disaster, the once-promising landscape turned into a scene straight out of a horror film, the way Theo had flung his hands in exasperation and somehow managed to get streaks of blue and green in his hair.

“Oh my God, Sel! He knows it’s you, he’s flirting back!”