The illustrator had been patient. Very patient. But there were limits.
Zoe leaned forward, dark circles smudged under her eyes, squinting at the draft cover on the screen. Her knee bounced restlessly as she chewed at the end of her pencil. She hadn’t slept properly in days; her hands shook faintly from too much caffeine and too little food. She stifled a yawn, then another, blinking hard as if she could force her focus to stay sharp.
“Maybe the title should be a little higher? No, wait—lower. Or… tilted? Oh! What if it’s hand-drawn lettering—”
“Or,” Mio cut in, rubbing her temples with the hand not holding a half-empty coffee, “we just approve it now so we can actually make the deadline?” Her voice was sharp, a little frayed, like someone running on too little sleep. She shifted in her chair, arms crossed tight, tapping her foot against the floor in impatience. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she kept cracking her knuckles as if the noise could ground her. Every few seconds she adjusted her chair, her shirt sleeves, even her glasses — fussing with anything to burn nervous energy.
The illustrator’s smile twitched. “We’ve been on this for hours.”
“But it’s important!” Zoe argued, tugging at her braid, strands slipping loose around her face. She blinked hard, eyes glassy from staring too long at the screen. Her fingers picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, and she kept rocking forward in her chair as if she might fall right through the desk. Another yawn caught her off guard, and she covered it with her hand quickly, cheeks flushing. “What if it doesn’t feel right? Readers know when something feels wrong!”
“And what if it never feels right because you can’t pick one?” Mio shot back. Her leg jittered under the desk, betraying her own nerves. Her pen clicked open and shut, over and over, until the noise filled the pauses between her words. She rubbed at her neck, pulled at the hem of her shirt, then went back to cracking her knuckles, unable to sit still. “We’re not commissioning the Mona Lisa here!”
The illustrator exhaled through her nose, slow and deliberate, like a teacher counting to ten. Her fingers drummed on the desk, nails clicking faster and faster. Then, with the calm of someone moments from snapping, she set down her pen.
“You know what? No. I am not dealing with this today. You—” she pointed at Zoe, “—need to stop second-guessing everything. And honestly? You look like you haven’t slept in days. You’re about to face-plant right into my desk.” She swiveled to Mio. “And you need to stop bulldozing over decisions just because you hate waiting. Do you even realize you’ve been clicking that pen for fifteen minutes straight?”
Both of them froze like scolded schoolkids, Zoe worrying the sleeve of her hoodie between her fingers, Mio pressing her lips tight as though to stop more words from spilling out. Zoe’s heel scraped anxiously against the floor, while Mio’s shoulders hunched so tight it looked painful.
The illustrator stood, grabbed her bag, and declared, “You are banned. Banned from feedback. I don’t want to see either of you until you’ve done something—anything—to destress. Go to a spa, eat ice cream, wrestle a bear, I don’t care. Just come back as functioning humans.”
And with that, she left.
Silence filled the studio.
Mio sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her hand lingered there, hiding the twitch at the corner of her mouth. “…Well. That happened.”
Zoe chewed her lip, shoulders hunched. Her pencil had been reduced to bite marks, almost splinters. She yawned again, miserably, her eyes watering. “Think she meant the bear thing literally?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Mio muttered, stretching her stiff fingers, cracking one knuckle after the other.
Zoe slumped back in her chair tugging at the frayed cuff of her hoodie. “Do I really look that horrible?” she asked quietly, like she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
Mio gave her a sidelong look, one eyebrow arched. “Honestly? Yeah. You look like you haven’t slept in… I don’t even know. A week?” And its the truth. Not only had she dark circles under her eyes, the braid she attemped this morning was more a masterpiece of hair sticking out that Mio had to redo it. Zoe also didn't eat much either because her stomach was in knots of the excitment she was feeling.
Zoe huffed, cheeks pinking. “I’m just excited. All these ideas keep popping up, and it’s hard to shut my brain off, y’know?”
Mio nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know.” But her thoughts were different — less sparks of inspiration and more shadows of worry. What if the outline wasn’t strong enough? What if the readers hated it? What if they were wasting their shot?
Mio stress was most visible in her structure of her daiily life. Like forgetting groceries, putting the kettle on 4 times before forgetting she was ment to make herself coffee.
Silence stretched, both of them staring at the empty desk where the illustrator had been. Then Zoe let out a sigh. “Maybe we… do need a destress day.”
Mio leaned back, crossing her arms. “…Maybe.”
They decided to follow the advice.
They tried the spa first. Hot stones, herbal tea, the works. Zoe melted into the lounge chair for about two whole minutes before sitting bolt upright, eyes bright with some new revelation.
“And what if we shift the subplot forward a chapter? Or—or maybe we use a different font for the chapter headers, oh! Or—” she yawned mid-sentence, wide and watery-eyed, before diving right back into the ramble.
“Zoe,” Mio groaned, pressing her palms over her face. “The point of this is to relax. Think of anything else. Puppies. Clouds. Your braid.”
“I can’t!” Zoe whispered harshly, fidgeting with the strap of her robe. “My brain doesn’t have an off switch.”
Mio signed. This wasn't working like it should.
By the time they reached the ice cream parlor, Zoe had changed her mind a few dozen times.
In atempt to shut her up she shoved a spoon of vanille ice cream in Zoe mouth.
It worked.
But not for Mio thoughs.
While Zoe is devouring the ice cream hers is melting away. Her troubles containing of possible bad reviews, people hating their writing, not getting finished on time....
“Mio.” Zoe slumped against the table, chin in her hand. Ze gave Mio a knowing look. Mio took a deep breath en shook her head.
“This is not working.” Zoe gave her a tired smile. “Maybe the bear is still an option.”
“Grhmmph,” Mio grumbled into her ice cream. “Let’s just go home.”
At home Mio made a pizza order before. Not in the mood to cook. Both of thel where still pretty much on edge.
Zoe was staring in the distance awfully quiet. Lookong around their living room Mio noticed the big fluffy pillows.
'Hey zoe?" She asked. The girl let out a hum. 'You told me Ella and you used to make pillow forts?"
Zoe looked her in the eyes. "Yes, why you...?"
Mio schrugged her schoulders. "i never built one be..."
Before she could complete her sentece, Zoe ran away with the speed of light, only to return with alle the Pillows she could find in the house.
"I will show you the art of fort making."
the time the pizza arrived, their living room had transformed into chaos-made-cozy: two chairs back-to-back with blankets drooping like sails, Zoe’s robe belt tied like a suspension bridge, and a broom wedged in at an angle to keep the “roof” from caving in. Fairy lights twinkled across the edges, giving the whole fort a warm glow.
Zoe ducked inside and spread her arms. “Behold! Fort Supreme!”
Mio raised an eyebrow from the opening. “Looks like it’s held together by sheer optimism.”
“Optimism and superior engineering,” Zoe corrected, smacking one of the cushions with pride. “Now get in here before it collapses without your weight distribution.”
Mio snorted but crawled in, tugging the pizza box along. They sat cross-legged on cushions, knees bumping under the low ceiling, as Zoe flipped open the box dramatically.
“Dinner in the fortress!” she declared. “A feast worthy of kings.”
“Queens,” Mio corrected automatically, grabbing a veggie slice.
“Queens,” Zoe agreed with a grin, biting into pepperoni. “Ruling with an iron stomach.”
They ate in exaggerated silence for about two seconds before Zoe piped up again. “Okay, but serious question: if there was only one slice of pizza left in the world, who deserves it more? Us, or the illustrator who banned us today?”
“Us,” Mio said instantly.
“No hesitation?” Zoe teased, her mouth full.
“Well she did kick us out.”
Zoe choked on her laugh, nearly spilling cheese on the blanket. “Good point. ”
They dissolved into giggles, the kind that came from too little sleep and too much comfort food.
Halfway through the box, Zoe leaned back against the cushions and sighed in exaggerated grandeur. “This is it. Peak life. Gourmet pizza, state-of-the-art pillow fort, twinkly lights. Why do people waste money on spas?”
“Because their forts don’t smell like pepperoni?” Mio offered dryly, though her mouth quirked into a smile.
Zoe gasped, clutching her slice to her chest. “You dare insult the sacred scent of Fort Supreme?”
Mio smirked. “I’m just saying, maybe crack a window open.”
Zoe threw a napkin at her, laughing so hard she had to curl forward, clutching her stomach. Mio joined in, shaking her head but unable to stop grinning.
When the laughter finally ebbed, Zoe stretched her legs out, toes nudging Mio’s. Her voice softened, though her smile stayed. “You know… we’re gonna be fine. Even if the book doesn’t turn into a bestseller. We’ve got pizza. And forts. And each other.”
Mio looked at her — really looked — and let out a long breath. “…Yeah. That’s enough.”
They went back to eating, playfully arguing over who had hoarded the biggest slices. At one point Zoe tried to claim the last piece by announcing, “Royal decree: pepperoni belongs to the queen of chaos,” only for Mio to snatch it mid-sentence with a smug, “Charing is caring.”
By the time the box was empty and their drinks gone, Zoe slumped sideways, her head landing against Mio’s shoulder. “Fortresses make good beds,” she mumbled, eyelids heavy.
“Mmhm,” Mio hummed, adjusting the blanket over them both. “As long as you don’t snore.”
“Rude,” Zoe whispered, already drifting.
Mio smiled faintly, leaning back against the cushions as her own eyes slid shut. For the first time in weeks, the stress melted away, leaving nothing but warmth, laughter, and the shaky but steady walls of their fort.
Two days later, Zoe and Mio showed up at the illustrator’s studio again. They looked far better than before: no jittering knees, no frazzled hair sticking in every direction, and no yawns wide enough to swallow the whole desk lamp.
The illustrator blinked at them, a little suspicious. “...You both look human again.”
Mio gave a small shrug. “Guess we finally took your advice.”
“Sort of,” Zoe added, grinning. “Spa didn’t work, ice cream didn’t work—but pillow forts? Five stars. Highly recommend.”
The illustrator pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something under her breath that sounded like, “Of course it would be pillow forts…”
They sat down, the project reopening on the screen. For a blissful moment, silence reigned.
Then Zoe leaned forward, eyes bright, pencil tapping against the table. “So, maybe the title could be a little higher? Or tilted? Or—”
The illustrator let out a long, theatrical groan.
Mio smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Maybe you need a destress day now.”
Zoe nodded eagerly. “Pillow forts work wonders.”
The illustrator stared at them both, utterly defeated. “…God help me.”
https://archiveofourown.org/works/69385126/chapters/180165546
