Of course, he remembers. How could he forget? One minute, we were following along with Bob Ross, and the next, his trees looked like melting broccoli, and he’d somehow managed to get paint in his hair. He was determined to make ‘happy little trees,’ and the next, they looked like they were screaming for help. I swear, I blinked, and it was everywhere.

My heart does a weird little flip, and I press my phone against my chest to stop myself from grinning like an idiot. “What do I do now?”

“You invite him over, obviously,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Your first date was at his place, bring the date to your place this time.”

Taking a deep breath, I send him my address before typing out another message. I know he already has it but I don’t want to assume.

Me: My kitchen, tomorrow evening. Don’t disappoint me, Boulanger.

Another buzz.

Theo: I’ll be there.

As soon as I read his text, I drop my phone onto the couch like it’s on fire, staring at it as if it might explode. Did I really just invite Theo over to my place? To bake? Me? Baking? In front of a man who can actually cook?

Celeste is practically bouncing in her seat, eyes sparkling with pure, unfiltered chaos. “This is the best thing that’s happened all week. You’re going to bake, you’re going to flirt, and he’s going to fall for you so hard he won’t know what hit him.”

“Or I’ll burn the cookies, and he’ll never speak to me again,” I mutter.

Celeste waves me off. “Oh, please. I’ll make sure the fire extinguisher’s handy. And if things get too hot in the kitchen—” she waggles her brows “—just remember, I support all life choices.”

I groan, shoving a pillow at her, but I’m already laughing despite the nerves twisting in my stomach. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

Celeste flops back onto the couch, stretching like a cat. “You know, I don’t get why you didn’t follow me into music. You’ve got the voice for it.”

I snort, reaching for a bottle of polish that somehow escaped Valkyrie’s destruction. “Please. You’re the one who has all the performing genes. I can’t even hum a song without sounding like a dying goose.”

She gasps, affronted. “Lies! I just listened to you sing as a way to try and distract me! You’re way better than you think.”

I roll my eyes, but her words spread a warmth in my chest. “Even if that were true, I like sketching. Art is my thing. It makes sense in my head in a way performing never did.”

Celeste hums, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I get that. Creating something from nothing, bringing an idea to life—it’s like songwriting, I guess. Different medium, same magic.”