The academy's east gardens were a fucking fever dream.

Phei had lived in Paradise for ten years and he still couldn't wrap his head around the sheer audacity of wealth on display here.

A manicured forest—an actual goddamn forest, professionally maintained, every tree pruned to artistic perfection—sprawling behind the main building like nature had been hired as interior decorator and given an unlimited budget.

And nestled in the heart of it, down a winding stone path that probably cost more than a small country's GDP, sat the fire pit lounge.

Circular stone seating curved around a central fireplace that burned year-round because why the fuck not.

Warm amber lighting embedded in the stonework cast everything in that golden-hour glow that made Instagram influencers weep with envy. Plush cushions scattered across the benches. A canopy of carefully curated trees overhead, filtering the afternoon light into something almost magical.

This was where the Academy Belles held court on warm days. Where trust fund kids came to "decompress" between classes about managing the empires their parents would hand them. Where normal students weren't exactly forbidden but definitely not welcome.

Maya had texted him to meet her here.

Bold move, Phei thought, walking down the stone path. Very bold move for someone who blushes when I look at her too long.

He spotted her before she spotted him.

She was perched on the curved stone bench nearest the fire pit, legs tucked under her, fidgeting with something in her lap. The flames painted her in warm orange and gold, dancing shadows playing across her features.

And her hair—

Phei stopped walking.

Holy shit.

Two days ago, Maya Scarlett had been a pretty girl with forgettable dark brown hair. The kind of girl you noticed because she was cute, then forgot because she didn't stand out.

Now?

Silver. Ash-gray. Pale as moonlight and long as sin, falling past her shoulders in waves so smooth they looked like liquid metal poured down her back. The firelight caught it and turned her into something from a fantasy novel—the ethereal princess, the winter queen, the girl who definitely got sacrificed to dragons in old myths.

He knew why she'd done it.

Three days ago, she'd caught him scrolling Pinterest during a free period. He'd paused on some model with gray hair—five seconds, maybe less, just an idle thought of huh, that looks cool—and then kept scrolling.

Maya had noticed.

Maya had remembered.

Maya had gone home and completely transformed herself based on a five-second glance at his phone screen.

That was either incredibly romantic or mildly terrifying. Possibly both.

She looked up and saw him standing there. Her whole face changed—lit up like someone had flipped a switch behind her eyes—and she scrambled to her feet so fast she nearly face-planted into the fire pit.

"You came! I wasn't sure if you'd—I mean I knew you would but also I wasn't totally sure and then you weren't answering my texts and I thought maybe you forgot or maybe you didn't want to or maybe—"

"Maya."

She snapped her mouth shut. Cheeks already pinking.

"Breathe."

"Right. Yes. Breathing is important." She took an exaggerated breath, let it out, then laughed at herself. "Sorry. I'm a disaster. I practiced what I was going to say like twelve times in the mirror and then you showed up and my brain just—" She made an explosion gesture near her head. "Poof. Gone. All the words. Just static and panic."

Phei felt something loosen in his chest. Something he hadn't realized was wound tight.

"I like the hair," he said.

Maya's hand flew up to touch it, suddenly self-conscious. "You noticed?"

"You're literally glowing silver in firelight. Hard to miss."

"Is that—I mean—do you actually like it? Or are you being nice? Because I can change it back. I saved the receipt and the dye place has this policy where if you're not satisfied—"

"Maya."

"Rambling again. I know. I'm aware." She bit her lip, then looked at him through her lashes—brown eyes warm with gold flecks catching the firelight. "I saw you looking at that picture. On your phone. And I thought maybe you liked it. The hair color. So I just..."

She shrugged like it was nothing. Like she hadn't restructured her entire appearance around a passing glance.

"It looks good," Phei said. Meant it. "Really good."

The pink on her cheeks went full crimson. She made a small sound—somewhere between a squeak and a whimper—and gestured frantically at the bench.

"Sit! Please. I brought food. Probably cold now but I can—there's a microwave in the commons if you want—or I could get you something else or—"

He sat.

She sat next to him. Close. Closer than necessary on a bench that could fit eight people. Their knees brushed and neither of them moved away.

The fire crackled. Somewhere in the manicured forest, a bird sang something that probably cost the academy three thousand dollars to import.

Maya pushed a container toward him with the ceremonial gravity of someone presenting tribute to a king.

Inside: sandwich cut into triangles (the fancy way, not the peasant horizontal slice), apple wedges arranged in a perfect fan, a bag of chips that cost more than Phei's old weekly food budget, and a chocolate chip cookie that looked... homemade.

Suspiciously homemade.

Dangerously homemade.

"Did you make the cookie?"

"What?" Maya's voice pitched up an octave. "No. I mean yes. But it's probably terrible. I'm not a baker. My mom says I have 'more enthusiasm than skill' which is her polite way of saying I've set the kitchen on fire twice and we're not allowed to talk about the souffle incident of 2023."

"The souffle incident?"

"We don't talk about it." She said it with the gravity of someone referencing a war crime. "My point is; you don't have to eat it. I just thought maybe you'd like something homemade because everything at this school is so... sterile? Like even the food is professionally curated. And I wanted to give you something that was just... me. Even if 'me' is burnt edges and uneven chocolate distribution."

Phei picked up the cookie.

It was, objectively speaking, a disaster. Burnt on one side, underdone on the other, chocolate chips clustered in a mutiny on the left half while the right half remained tragically chipless. It looked like something a well-meaning child would make in a YouTube "first baking attempt" video.

He took a bite.

It tasted like burning and too much sugar and someone actually giving a shit.

"It's good," he said.

Maya's face did something complicated—disbelief warring with hope warring with the desperate need to believe him. "You're lying."

"I don't lie."

"Everyone lies."

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