ℛ.

It had been established sometime during their first year at university, strengthened repeatedly over the years and eventually accepted as an unavoidable part of his personality. Jermajesty had an almost impressive ability to omit details that most people would consider important. Dates. Locations. Times. Names. Context. None of them seemed especially necessary in his mind. Somehow he expected everyone else to fill in the gaps and, annoyingly enough, things usually worked out anyway.

Which was precisely why the text message he sent on wednesday afternoon should have concerned her more than it did.

At the time, it barely registered. She was halfway through folding laundry when her phone vibrated beside her. The message appeared on her screen without warning, carrying all the usual chaos she'd come to expect from him.

Jermajesty 🥳

dinner friday?

Y/N smiled immediately, the complete lack of context felt very on-brand. Setting aside the shirt she'd been folding, she typed back.

Y/N

who?

The reply arrived less than a minute later.

Jermajesty 🥳

me

randy

jaafar

maybe others

Y/N stared at the message for several seconds. The phrase maybe others probably should have raised questions. Looking back, she would later admit that much. The wording was suspiciously vague. The complete absence of additional details was suspiciously vague. The fact that Jermajesty somehow managed to organize plans without communicating any useful information whatsoever was, unfortunately, entirely normal.

At the time, none of it seemed particularly noteworthy.

Group dinners happened all the time.

The Jackson family rarely required elaborate reasons to gather somewhere. Plans materialized spontaneously. Additional people appeared halfway through. Somebody always invited a cousin who invited another cousin who brought a friend. Events expanded naturally, acquiring participants the way rolling snowballs accumulated layers.

Y/N had stopped questioning it years ago.

Instead, she replied yes, returned to folding laundry, and continued with the rest of her week.

Work filled most of Thursday. Friday disappeared almost as quickly. The painting competition became another story added to the growing collection of memories she'd accumulated with the Jacksons over the years, filed away somewhere between birthdays, movie nights and the countless family gatherings she'd attended since meeting Jermajesty.

The restaurant wasn't particularly formal. It also wasn't casual enough to justify showing up in whatever she'd been wearing around the house all day. The result was twenty minutes spent standing in front of her wardrobe rejecting perfectly reasonable outfit choices for reasons she couldn't properly explain.

Eventually she settled on something simple and comfortable. Even then, she found herself changing earrings twice before finally grabbing her bag and heading out the door.

As she sat in the backseat of an uber, the city gave her plenty of time to wonder who else would be there.

Traffic moved surprisingly well for a Friday evening. The sky had already started shifting toward dusk by the time she arrived, the last traces of daylight fading behind buildings while restaurant windows glowed warmly against the darkening street. People moved along the sidewalks in small groups and conversations drifted through open doorways. The entire city seemed caught in that familiar transition between the work week and the weekend.

Inside, the restaurant buzzed with comfortable energy. The sort of atmosphere that made lingering feel easy. A hostess greeted her almost immediately before leading her toward the reservation.

The table was empty but Y/N wasn't surprised. If anything, arriving before Jermajesty felt statistically inevitable. Years of friendship had conditioned her accordingly. 

She thanked the hostess, settled into her seat and immediately reached for her phone.

No messages.

No updates.

For the first few minutes, she occupied herself by pretending to study the menu but in reality, very little actual reading occurred. Her attention drifted repeatedly toward the entrance instead, years of experience having taught her that Jermajesty could appear at any moment or thirty minutes from now with equal probability.

Around her, the evening unfolded comfortably. Conversations rose and fell between nearby tables. Glasses clinked softly against tabletops. Somewhere near the bar, somebody laughed loudly enough to attract attention from half the restaurant before immediately apologizing.

The atmosphere settled around her naturally. The kind of place where people lost track of time.

A few minutes later, movement near the entrance caught her attention. At first, she only glanced up instinctively. Then recognition landed. The smile arrived before she could stop it.

Jaafar.

He spotted her almost immediately. Even from across the room, she caught the brief flicker of amusement that crossed his face.

The kind that appeared when two people arrived at exactly the same conclusion.

Something unexpectedly familiar settled in her chest as he made his way toward the table. The feeling caught her off guard. Not because she disliked it but because she'd only known him properly for a matter of weeks.

Somewhere between the birthday party, the painting competition and countless conversations that seemed to stretch far longer than intended, his presence had already become strangely easy.

'Well,' she said as he reached the table, 'this is becoming a habit.'

His laugh came immediately. 'What is?'

'seeing you.'

The smile that followed seemed equally automatic.

'Not complaining.'

Jaafar settled into the chair across from her with an ease that immediately altered the shape of the evening, and the realization caught Y/N slightly off guard. Nothing visible had changed.

The restaurant remained exactly as it had been moments earlier, filled with overlapping conversations and the steady movement of waiters moving between crowded tables, carrying trays balanced expertly on one hand while laughter drifted from every corner of the room. Music played softly enough to blend into the background. People continued arriving through the entrance in small groups, shrugging out of jackets and greeting friends already waiting inside. Yet despite the fact that everything around her remained unchanged, she found herself relaxing almost immediately.

Before Jaafar arrived, part of her attention had remained fixed on the expectation of other people. Not consciously. She hadn't been sitting there checking the time every two minutes or wondering where everybody was. Years of friendship with Jermajesty had cured her of that particular habit long ago. Waiting for him wasn't an activity. It was simply part of knowing him. Still, some small corner of her awareness had remained occupied by the empty chairs surrounding the table, by the feeling that the evening hadn't properly started yet. That awareness seemed to disappear the moment Jaafar sat down. The empty seats faded into the background. The waiting stopped feeling like waiting. Somewhere between exchanging greetings and opening their menus, the dinner had quietly begun without anybody else's permission.

Across the table, entirely unaware of the direction her thoughts had taken, Jaafar was studying the menu with remarkable concentration. The seriousness of it made her smile before she could stop herself.

His eyes lifted immediately. 'What?'

The question startled a laugh out of her.

'Oh nothing.'

'That wasn't a nothing smile.'

'It absolutely was.'

The suspicion on his face only deepened. 'yeah I don't believe you.'

Y/N shook her head, the smile refusing to disappear completely. 'I was just wondering why you're looking at that menu like your future depends on it.'

Jaafar glanced back down.

'Because it does.'

'It absolutely doesn't.'

'You haven't been here before, have you?'

'No.'

'Then you don't understand.'

The answer arrived with enough sincerity that she immediately laughed again.

For reasons she couldn't entirely explain, conversation with him always seemed to settle into place effortlessly. There was never that awkward stage where two people searched for topics because neither knew what to say next. Every discussion seemed to pick up exactly where the last one had ended, as though the years of near misses before meeting had somehow skipped over the stranger phase entirely.

The waiter arrived to take their drink orders, and for a little while the conversation drifted elsewhere. Abu Bakr inevitably became the topic before long.

'I still can't believe he made you sit through that entire presentation about dinosaurs.'

Y/N laughed immediately. 'Presentation?'

'That's what Jer called it.'

'It was forty-five minutes long.'

Jaafar blinked. 'Forty-five?'

'Minimum.'

The memory resurfaced so clearly she found herself smiling before she could stop it. Abu Bakr had cornered her during one family gathering and spent nearly an hour explaining different species of dinosaurs with the confidence of someone defending a doctoral thesis. The details had become increasingly questionable toward the end.

'He had charts.'

'No.'

'He absolutely had charts.'

The laugh that escaped him was immediate.

For the next several minutes they exchanged stories, each apparently trying to determine who possessed the more ridiculous Abu Bakr experience. Y/N recounted the time he had informed her with complete seriousness that broccoli was government propaganda. Jaafar responded with a story involving three missing toy trucks, an elaborate investigation and a completely innocent dog that had somehow become the primary suspect.

The longer they talked, the more Y/N found herself forgetting about the rest of the evening entirely.

One story became another. The conversation drifted toward childhood memories. Family stories surfaced. They found themselves discussing the increasingly strange collection of nicknames Abu Bakr had given various relatives over the years. Every topic seemed to open the door to three more. Time slipped quietly past them while neither paid much attention.

The realization only arrived when Y/N happened to glance toward the entrance while reaching for her drink. The sight caught her attention immediately. The table remained exactly as it had been when she'd arrived.

Empty.

The chairs surrounding them sat untouched.

A faint frown tugged at her brow. Because now that she thought about it...where was everybody? The thought lingered long enough for her to reach for her phone. The screen lit up instantly.

No messages.

No dramatic explanation from Jermajesty involving traffic, forgotten reservations or some completely avoidable disaster.

Across the table, Jaafar's attention had drifted toward his own phone at almost the exact same moment. Y/N noticed immediately. The slight crease appearing between his eyebrows.

For a moment she simply watched him.

Then his eyes lifted, their gazes met and suddenly the same realization seemed to pass silently between them.

Gradually.

The way puzzle pieces sometimes fall into place when you aren't actively trying to solve them.

For several moments neither spoke.

Then he leaned back slightly, staring at her with an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

'Did we just get set up?'

The question hung between them.

Y/N looked at him, then at the empty chairs and back at him. And despite every intention of being annoyed, a laugh escaped before she could stop it. Because suddenly everything made sense.

The vague invitation.

The lack of details.

The mysterious maybe others.

The complete absence of communication from two people who, under normal circumstances, would've sent at least seven unnecessary messages by now.

Every missing piece slid neatly into place.

'Oh my God.'

Jaafar rubbed a hand across his face.

'They absolutely did.' The certainty in his voice only made her laugh harder.

There was no doubt anymore

The thing Y/N would later find most annoying about the entire situation was how quickly she stopped caring.

For at least a few minutes after the realization settled between them, she made a genuine effort to remain offended on principle. Jermajesty had orchestrated the whole thing with an amount of confidence they absolutely did not deserve. Looking back, the clues were embarrassingly obvious. The vague invitations. The complete lack of useful information. The suspicious absence of communication. The fact that neither of them had bothered checking their phones in nearly half an hour because they'd both been too distracted talking.

The more she thought about it, the worse it became.

Half an hour had disappeared without either of them noticing. Half an hour during which the empty chairs surrounding the table had gradually stopped feeling empty. Half an hour during which the conversation had flowed easily enough that the absence of everybody else simply...hadn't mattered.

The realization settled somewhere beneath the amusement, quiet enough to avoid immediate examination but impossible to ignore completely.

Jaafar seemed trapped in a remarkably similar internal argument. Every time he looked like he might become genuinely annoyed, the amusement returned and ruined it.

'I can't believe they did this.'

The statement lacked conviction.

Y/N noticed immediately. 'You don't sound angry.'

'You don't either.'

Unfortunately, he had a point. The observation lingered between them for a moment before both laughed again.

The situation was simply too ridiculous to sustain genuine irritation because now that they'd figured it out, the entire evening suddenly looked different in retrospect. Every detail felt suspicious. Every missing piece of information seemed intentional. Y/N could practically picture the conversation that must have happened beforehand. Jermajesty sitting somewhere, convinced he was operating several steps ahead of everyone else, probably congratulating himself on the brilliance of a plan that essentially amounted to lying by omission.

The image alone was enough to make her smile.

Across the table, Jaafar rubbed a hand across his face.

'Jer's never letting this go.'

'Oh no, no.'

The certainty behind the answer made her laugh.

Eventually, the waiter returned, blissfully unaware that the entire foundation of the evening had just collapsed. For a brief moment, he glanced at the empty seats before looking back at them, clearly expecting an update regarding the rest of their party, asking them if the rest of the guests would join them.

Neither Y/N nor Jaafar spoke immediately.

Instead, they looked at each other.

Then at the empty chairs.

Then back at each other again.

The absurdity of it nearly sent them into another round of laughter.

'No,' Jaafar said eventually, still smiling. 'it's just us.'

The waiter accepted the answer with admirable professionalism and began asking about appetizers. And somehow that was the moment everything shifted.

Because up until that point, some small part of the evening had still existed in a state of uncertainty. There had remained the possibility that Jermajesty and Randy would eventually appear. Some lingering expectation that the dinner might still become the group gathering it was originally supposed to be.

That possibility disappeared the moment they ordered.

Y/N found herself debating appetizers with Jaafar as though this had always been the plan. The conversation drifted effortlessly back into its previous rhythm after that, carrying them away from the setup almost immediately. Every now and then one of them would remember what had happened and make a comment about it, usually at Jermajesty's expense, but increasingly those moments felt less important than everything surrounding them. The evening had acquired its own momentum now. The restaurant continued filling around them. More people arrived. More conversations blended into the background. The city outside darkened gradually beyond the windows until the glass reflected more light than it revealed.

Somewhere between placing their order and the arrival of their food, Y/N became aware of how much she was enjoying herself and the realization caught her off guard.

There was a difference between enjoying an evening and becoming so immersed in it that enjoyment faded into the background entirely. The second was rarer. It happened when a conversation became engaging enough that time lost definition. When minutes stopped feeling measurable. When attention remained fixed entirely on the person across from you rather than drifting elsewhere.

The sensation was surprisingly familiar.

It reminded her of the early years of her friendship with Jermajesty. Those first conversations that somehow stretched for hours despite starting with nothing important to discuss. The evenings that disappeared without warning because one topic continuously led into another.

The practical parts of the evening happened almost without her noticing. Later, if somebody asked her what she'd ordered, she would have been able to answer. She remembered looking at the menu. She remembered debating between two options. Yet those details felt strangely secondary in hindsight, pushed toward the edges of her memory by everything else occupying her attention. The conversation continued uninterrupted throughout all of it, weaving itself around the ordinary mechanics of dinner until those moments barely felt separate from the rest of the evening.

Perhaps that was why the hours seemed to pass differently.

Y/N didn't realize it immediately. The awareness arrived gradually, surfacing every now and then before disappearing again. At one point she happened to glance toward the windows and noticed that the city outside looked darker than she remembered. At another, she reached for her drink and realized it had been refilled without her noticing. Later still, she became aware that the people occupying nearby tables were different from the ones who had been there when they arrived. The restaurant had continued moving around them. Groups came and went. Conversations started and ended. The entire evening had progressed forward while her attention remained fixed somewhere else entirely.

Across the table.

The realization was impossible to ignore once she noticed it.

For years, she'd known Jaafar in fragments. Through Jermajesty. Through family stories. Through photographs she'd occasionally glimpse over someone's shoulder. Through anecdotes shared casually at birthdays, holidays and gatherings where his name surfaced often enough to become familiar long before the person himself did. Without meaning to, she'd built an impression of him over time. Not a complete one. Just enough pieces to create the outline of someone she technically hadn't met.

Now she found herself gradually replacing that outline with actual experiences.

The real version was funnier than she'd expected. Quieter in some ways. More observant in others. There were details nobody else could have explained properly because they were too small to appear in stories. The way he laughed before reaching the end of certain memories because he already knew which part was funny. The way he became visibly more animated whenever a topic genuinely interested him. The way his entire face changed when something amused him enough to make him forget himself. They were insignificant observations individually. Yet the longer the evening continued, the more she found herself collecting them without meaning to.

The realization became stranger when she discovered that the process wasn't entirely one-sided.

Several times throughout dinner, Jaafar referenced stories she'd never actually told him. Every time it happened, Y/N reacted the same way. First confusion. Then recognition. Then the inevitable explanation.

Jermajesty.

Apparently years of friendship had resulted in her becoming a recurring character in conversations she'd never been present for.

The latest example arrived somewhere between the main course and dessert.

The conversation had drifted toward university memories, which then somehow evolved into embarrassing stories, which inevitably led Jaafar to casually reference an incident involving a professor that Y/N had spent years hoping everyone had forgotten.

She stared at him.

'How do you know about that?'

The question escaped before she could stop it.

Immediately, his smile widened.

'Oh my God.'

The amusement lingering in his expression made it impossible to remain annoyed.

The story resurfaced instantly. A lecture hall. An ill-timed comment. Several months of regret. She hadn't thought about it in years. The fact that Jaafar knew about it felt absurd.

Yet beneath the embarrassment, another feeling lingered.

Because hearing those stories repeated back to her made something unexpectedly clear. Over the years, she'd become so thoroughly woven into the Jackson family's life that she'd stopped noticing it happening. The process had been gradual. One gathering became another. One invitation became a tradition. Relationships deepened one ordinary afternoon at a time until eventually there was no clear moment where she stopped feeling like a guest and started feeling like she belonged.

Maybe that was why tonight felt so natural.

Not because Jaafar was a stranger she was getting to know. Because, in a strange way, he wasn't entirely a stranger.

They were discovering each other properly for the first time, yet pieces of that familiarity had existed long before either of them acknowledged it. Years of hearing about one another had created an unusual foundation. Most friendships began with introductions. This felt more like filling in missing chapters.

The thought remained with her long after the conversation moved on. Not because it was particularly profound. Because it felt true.

By the time dessert arrived at the table, Y/N had completely lost track of how long they'd been sitting there. The city beyond the windows had disappeared into darkness. The restaurant had settled into the slower rhythm that arrived later in the evening, when the dinner rush began fading and conversations stretched longer because nobody felt particularly rushed to leave. The plate between them appeared almost accidentally. Neither had planned on ordering dessert. At least, that was the version of events both continued insisting upon. Somewhere a dessert menu had appeared. Somewhere a discussion had happened. Then a slice of chocolate cake arrived at the table, and the argument shifted toward determining whose fault that was.

Y/N maintained that mentioning dessert was not the same thing as suggesting dessert. Jaafar disagreed. The discussion lasted considerably longer than necessary. Neither seemed particularly interested in reaching a conclusion. That, Y/N realized, was becoming a recurring theme. The argument itself seemed more important than winning it.

When the bill arrived, the restaurant had settled into the quieter rhythm that belonged exclusively to the end of the evening. The energy that had filled the dining room when they first arrived had softened considerably. Several tables now sat empty, their chairs neatly pushed in while staff moved discreetly between them collecting glasses and resetting place settings for the following day. The conversations that remained seemed lower somehow, as though the entire room had collectively decided to wind itself down. Beyond the windows, the city had long since disappeared into darkness, reduced to distant lights and blurred reflections scattered across the glass.

The black folder appeared beside the table almost unnoticed.

Y/N became aware of it only because it interrupted the conversation.

Until then, she'd stopped paying attention to the practical reality of dinner altogether. The evening had unfolded with such surprising ease that she'd lost track of nearly everything beyond the person sitting across from her. Time had become particularly unreliable. Every time she felt as though only twenty minutes had passed, she discovered another hour had somehow disappeared.

The realization lingered briefly while she glanced toward the bill. Then, almost automatically, she reached for it. Across the table, Jaafar did exactly the same thing. The movement happened so quickly neither of them seemed to think about it. One second her hand was moving toward the folder. The next, warm fingers closed gently around hers.

For a moment, Y/N froze.

The interruption seemed to surprise both of them equally.

Jaafar's hand had landed over hers entirely by instinct, his thumb settling loosely against the side of her fingers while the rest of his hand curved around hers for the briefest moment before reaching past her toward the bill.

Then he took the folder. And just like that, the conversation continued.

Across the table, Jaafar opened the bill without the slightest indication that anything unusual had happened.

'I've got it.'

The statement arrived with enough certainty to make further discussion feel almost pointless.

Y/N recovered quickly. 'No.'

'Yes.'

'We can split it.'

'We can.' The agreement caught her off guard. 'Next time.'

The words arrived casually. Effortlessly.

As though they belonged in the conversation.

As though another dinner already existed somewhere in the future and neither of them needed to question it.

For a moment, Y/N simply looked at him because of how naturally he said it. There was no awkwardness behind it. No visible awareness of what he'd implied. The statement carried the same certainty as everything else he'd said that evening.

Next time.

The phrase settled quietly somewhere inside her. The truth was that she hadn't wanted the evening to end. She hadn't admitted that to herself until now.

The conversation had been too easy.

The hours had disappeared too quickly.

And somewhere between the stories and the laughter and the gradual discovery of who Jaafar actually was beyond the years of secondhand familiarity, she'd started looking forward to seeing him again.

Jaafar was already reaching for his card while she remained momentarily distracted by the realization. Eventually, she exhaled through a small smile and shook her head.

'Fine.'

The satisfaction that immediately appeared on his face made her regret the decision on principle.

Unfortunately, it also made her laugh.

And as the bill disappeared and the final practicalities of the evening wrapped themselves up around the edges of the conversation, Y/N found herself carrying two separate realizations at once.

The first was that Jermajesty was never going to let this go.

The second, considerably more dangerous one, was that she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to, either.

By the time they finally stepped outside, the city felt entirely different from the one they'd entered several hours earlier. 

The rush of the evening had long since disappeared, leaving behind the quieter rhythm that belonged exclusively to late nights. Traffic still moved through the streets, but less urgently now. The sidewalks were scattered with small groups lingering outside restaurants and bars, reluctant to call an end to evenings that had gone well. Behind them, warm light spilled briefly from the restaurant each time the door opened before disappearing again into the darkness. Y/N found herself slowing instinctively once they reached the sidewalk, not because she had anywhere else to be, but because she wasn't quite ready for the evening to be over. The realization arrived unexpectedly. She had spent so much of the night simply existing inside the conversation that she hadn't stopped to consider how much she'd been enjoying herself. 

Now, standing beneath the glow of the streetlights with her coat pulled tighter against the cool air, she became aware of a faint reluctance settling somewhere in her chest. The evening had reached its natural conclusion. The bill had been paid. Goodbyes were approaching. Yet some part of her wished for a little more time.

The strange thing was that neither of them seemed particularly eager to rush toward the ending. The conversation continued effortlessly as they made their way away from the restaurant, picking up exactly where it had left off inside. They returned briefly to the subject of Jermajesty, both of them still finding fresh amusement in the increasingly obvious setup. 

'He really thought he was subtle,' she said, laughing as the image of Jermajesty inevitably surfaced in her mind.

Jaafar shook his head, his smile appearing almost immediately. 'The worst part is that he is probably congratulating himself right now.'

'He absolutely is.'

The image was so accurate that it made her laugh harder. For a moment she could practically picture him somewhere in his house, waiting impatiently for updates he absolutely did not deserve. The thought settled warmly between them, carrying none of the awkwardness that should have accompanied the situation. That, more than anything, continued surprising her. At no point throughout the evening had she become self-conscious about the fact that they'd been set up. The realization had certainly amused her. It had embarrassed her briefly. Yet somehow it had never managed to disrupt the conversation itself. They'd simply acknowledged it and continued enjoying the evening anyway.

As they reached the edge of the parking lot, Jaafar glanced toward the street before looking back at her. 'Where'd you park?'

The question felt ordinary enough that she answered without thinking much about it.

'I didn't. I took an Uber.'

She saw the thought register almost immediately. Not dramatically. Just a small shift in expression, the same practical consideration she'd started recognizing throughout the evening whenever something caught his attention.

'Oh, then I'll take you home.'

The offer arrived with such uncomplicated certainty that Y/N felt herself smiling before she could stop it. There was something remarkably Jaafar about the way he said it. No hesitation. No awkwardness. No sense that he was presenting some grand gesture. He simply identified a problem and offered a solution. The simplicity of it made the kindness feel even more genuine.

'You don't have to.'

'Mh, I want to.'

The answer came so quickly that it immediately reminded her of the bill. The memory resurfaced alongside the image of his hand catching hers before reaching for the folder, and for a moment she found herself looking away, suddenly aware of how often small moments from the evening kept replaying in her mind. The awareness felt dangerous in a way she wasn't interested in examining too closely.

'Thank you,' she said instead.

Something softened briefly in his expression. 'You're more than welcome.'

The exchange was simple. Ordinary, even. Yet Y/N found herself carrying it with her as they continued toward his car. The truth was that she appreciated the offer more than she'd expected. Not because she couldn't get home on her own. Because she liked the idea of extending the evening a liittle longer. Another twenty minutes of conversation suddenly felt significantly more appealing than sitting alone in the back of an Uber while the night gradually settled around her. The realization arrived quietly, but once it did, she couldn't ignore it. She wasn't ready for the evening to end. And judging by how naturally the conversation continued as they walked through the parking lot, she suspected she wasn't the only one.

When they reached the car, it no longer felt as though the night was winding down. It felt as though it was simply moving into its next chapter.

As the familiar streets of her neighborhood began appearing outside the windows, Y/N became aware of a subtle shift in the conversation. Nothing dramatic changed between them. Neither fell silent. Neither suddenly acknowledged that the evening was ending. Yet the awareness existed all the same, settling quietly beneath the discussion as the car moved through increasingly familiar roads. For the first time all night, she found herself conscious of the fact that this was actually the end of it. In another few minutes she would be gathering her things and heading inside. 

The feeling surprised her mostly because she hadn't spent the evening anticipating anything. She hadn't arrived at the restaurant with expectations. She certainly hadn't arrived expecting to spend several hours alone with Jaafar. Yet somewhere between discovering they'd been set up, arguing over dessert, exchanging stories they'd somehow heard about each other years before actually meeting, and laughing often enough to lose track of time entirely, the evening had become one of those rare experiences that felt enjoyable while it was happening. Usually, she only recognized those moments afterward. They became memories before she understood their value. Tonight had been different. She had been aware of it every step of the way.

The car slowed as they turned onto her street.

'There,' she said, pointing toward her house. 'That's me.'

Jaafar nodded and pulled over smoothly.

For a moment neither moved.

Outside, the neighborhood sat mostly silent beneath the glow of streetlights. A few windows remained illuminated. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked before everything settled back into stillness.

Y/N found herself smiling.

Across from her, Jaafar seemed equally relaxed, leaning back slightly in his seat while listening to whatever point she was making. The sight made something warm settle quietly in her chest. Throughout the evening, she'd stopped noticing how easy everything felt because she'd become accustomed to it. Now, sitting at the end of the night with nowhere left to go and nothing left to distract her, the awareness returned all at once.

Before she could overthink it, the words escaped.

'You know...' The smile lingering on her face widened slightly. 'I'm not entirely mad at Jer anymore.'

The reaction was immediate.

Jaafar laughed. The kind of laugh that arrived when someone says exactly what you've been thinking. 

'Yeah.' His gaze dropped briefly toward the steering wheel before returning to her. 'Me neither.'

For a few seconds neither said anything else. The silence that settled over the car wasn't awkward. If anything, it felt unusually peaceful. Comfortable in the way silences only became after a long conversation, when neither person felt responsible for filling every available space.

Eventually, Y/N reached for the door handle.

Then paused.

Turning back toward him.

'Thank you for dinner, I had fun.'

The words meant more than the bill.

More than the ride.

Both of them seemed aware of that.

A small smile appeared. 'Anytime, me too.'

'Goodnight, Jaafar'

'Goodnight, Y/N'

By the time she changed into comfortable clothes and settled beneath her blankets later that night, the evening had already begun taking on the soft quality that good memories often acquired almost immediately. The details remained clear enough to touch, yet the whole thing felt strangely distant already, as though it belonged slightly more to memory than reality. She found herself replaying fragments without meaning to. A story. A joke. The look on Jaafar's face when he'd realized they were being set up. The argument over dessert. The easy certainty with which he'd said next time.

Her phone vibrated.

Y/N glanced down.

The second she saw the name, she started laughing.

Jermajesty 🥳

so

She stared at the message.

another appeared almost immediately.

Jermajesty 🥳

how was your date

Y/N dropped her head back against the pillow.

The audacity.

A third message arrived before she could answer and for several seconds, she simply stared at the screen. Then another message appeared.

Jermajesty 🥳

you're welcome btw

The laugh escaped before she could stop it. Somewhere across the city, she was completely certain Jermajesty looked unbearably pleased with himself.

Later, after the messages from Jermajesty had finally stopped arriving and the house had settled into silence, Y/N found herself lying awake longer than she intended. Not because she couldn't sleep. She was exhausted, if anything. The evening had stretched far longer than she'd expected when she first accepted the invitation. Yet every time she closed her eyes, her mind drifted back toward the restaurant. 

Toward conversations she couldn't quite remember word for word but somehow remembered enjoying. 

Toward laughter that had arrived so naturally she hadn't noticed how much time was passing. 

Toward all the small moments that had seemed insignificant while they were happening and suddenly felt much less so in retrospect.

The thoughts followed her into sleep.

Across the city, Jaafar was experiencing a remarkably similar problem.

His apartment had been quiet for over an hour. The evening was over. The drive home was over. The restaurant existed only as a memory now. Yet his thoughts kept returning there anyway, replaying fragments of the night with an atention he hadn't given them while they were actually happening. The conversations resurfaced first. Then the laughter. Then all the small details that had quietly accumulated throughout the evening without his noticing.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that comfort was a surprisingly rare thing. The kind that arrived without effort. The kind that made hours disappear. The kind that left no space for self-consciousness because you became too busy enjoying the moment to think about yourself at all.

He couldn't remember the last time an evening had felt quite like that.

Outside, the city continued moving through the night. Lights flickered on and off in distant buildings. Cars passed ocasionally beneath apartment windows. Somewhere, entirely unaware of the fact that he was occupying her thoughts, Y/N was probably asleep by now.

Jaafar closed his eyes.

Tomorrow would be normal again. Work. Family. The ordinary rhythm of life reasserting itself after an unexpectedly good evening.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world had other ideas.

By ten-thirty that morning, she was standing in the middle of an arts and crafts store holding two different packs of paintbrushes and wondering how exactly she'd managed to get talked into this.

The answer, unsurprisingly, was Abu Bakr.

Three days earlier, she'd received a video call from Jermajesty's phone that had lasted almost fifteen minutes. Not because he wanted anything, but because Abu Bakr had apparently decided she needed to be informed that he was now an artist. The announcement had been delivered with the seriousness of a press conference. For several uninterrupted minutes, he'd explained colours, painting techniques and what Y/N strongly suspected were entirely fictional artistic principles. She had understood maybe half of what he was saying, but that hadn't really mattered. The excitement had been contagious enough on its own.

Now she was staring at shelves lined with children's paint supplies while trying to remember whether finger paint washed out of clothing but that felt like a problem for Future Y/N.

The shopping basket hanging from her arm had already become significantly heavier than intended. Paint. Brushes. Sketchbooks. Stickers. Markers. Somewhere along the way she'd completely abandoned the original plan of buying one small thing and had instead started shopping like she was personally funding a preschool art program.

The realization made her laugh quietly to herself.

Somewhere over the past few years, buying random things for Jackson family members had become alarmingly normal.

There was a strange comfort in that thought.

When she'd first met Jermajesty at university, she never could have imagined becoming so naturally woven into the rhythm of his family's life. At the time, simply being invited to family gatherings had felt surprising enough. She remembered spending nearly a week debating whether she should attend that first barbecue, convinced she would feel out of place the entire time. Looking back now, the memory felt almost ridiculous.

The Jackson house had stopped feeling unfamiliar a long time ago.

At some point, without ever announcing itself, it had become one of the places she instinctively associated with comfort.

By the time she pulled onto the familiar street later that afternoon, the feeling settled over her almost immediately.

The house looked exactly as it always did.

Cars parked along the curb, music faintly drifting through open windows, the distant sound of voices carrying into the warm California air. Nothing particularly remarkable.

There were very few places left where she could show up unannounced and know with complete certainty that she would be welcomed inside.

The Jacksons had always made it look effortless.

The front door was unlocked so Y/N stepped inside, slipping her sunglasses into her bag as she moved through the entryway. The familiar sounds of the house wrapped around her almost instantly. Somewhere upstairs, a door closed. A television played in another room. Laughter echoed briefly from deeper inside the house before dissolving into overlapping conversations she couldn't quite make out.

The house never seemed quiet, even on calmer days, there was always movement. Always life and that was part of its charm.

'Nini!'

As she was saying hi to the family and teasing Jermajesty for the story he had posted, the shout arrived before she even reached the kitchen.

Y/N laughed immediately.

'Hey you.'

A second later Abu Bakr came flying around the corner at a speed that suggested absolutely no concern for personal safety. He nearly crashed into her legs before wrapping both arms around her legs.

'You came.'

'I did.'

His eyes immediately dropped toward the shopping bag in her hand. 'You bring paint?'

Y/N stared at him. 'Well, hello to you too bud.'

'You bring paint?'

She lasted approximately three seconds before laughing. Slowly, she lifted the bag and Abu Bakr's reaction was instantaneous, his entire face lit up. The excitement was so genuine that Y/N found herself smiling despite having known exactly what the response would be.

'Okay,' she said, shaking her head. 'Let's go before you explode.'

Apparently that was all the permission he needed.

The backyard looked exactly as she'd expected. Warm sunlight spilled across the patio while a light breeze occasionally stirred the trees overhead. Somewhere inside the house, music continued playing softly enough that it blended into the background rather than demanding attention. It was one of those afternoons that seemed determined to move slowly.

Twenty minutes later, she was sitting cross-legged beside him, sleeves rolled up, trying to convince him that painting the sun green was perhaps a slightly unconventional choice.

'It green.'

'The sun?'

'Yeah.'

'Huh..interesting.'

'It green.'

'Yeah, I see buddy.' Y/N laughed and dipped her brush back into the paint. 

Organization lasted less than a minute and chaos arrived immediately afterward. Abu Bakr approached painting the same way he approached everything else in life. With complete confidence and very little concern for consequences. Paint accumulated everywhere. On the paper. On the table. Suspiciously close to his sleeves. Y/N spent most of the next half hour alternating between working on her own painting and preventing various artistic catastrophes.

The afternoon settled into a comfortable rhythm after that. Conversation drifted wherever Abu Bakr decided it should go, which meant topics changed every few minutes without warning. Dinosaurs eventually became trucks. Trucks somehow became superheroes. Superheroes turned into a detailed explanation of why green was objectively the greatest colour ever created.

Y/N wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed when the back door opened.

The sound barely registered at first.

People moved through the house constantly. Family members wandered between rooms carrying drinks, conversations, plates of food, half-finished stories. The house existed in a permanent state of motion. Nobody thought twice about doors opening or closing.

What finally caught her attention wasn't the sound itself.

It was Abu Bakr.

One second he was focused entirely on his painting, tongue peeking out slightly in concentration as he added yet another questionable shade of green to the page. The next, his head snapped up so quickly that a paintbrush slipped from his fingers.

His entire face transformed.

'Jaja!'

The excitement in his voice made Y/N glance over her shoulder.

And there he was. Jaafar.

A week ago, the sight probably would have surprised her.

Now it mostly made her laugh.

Three years of somehow missing each other. Three years of hearing excuses about filming schedules, rehearsals, travel plans and impossible timing. Then suddenly they'd met once and apparently the universe had decided to overcorrect.

A gym bag hung from one shoulder. A baseball cap sat low over his curls. There was a faint tiredness around his eyes that suggested a long rehearsal, but it softened almost immediately when Abu Bakr launched himself in his direction.

Jaafar caught him effortlessly, the motion looked practiced. 'Hey, buddy.'

Abu Bakr immediately started talking far too fast for any normal person to follow, Jaafar somehow managed anyway. Eventually his gaze lifted toward the table. Toward her.

His smile widened slightly.

'Hey.'

Something unexpectedly easy settled into Y/N's chest.

As though they were continuing a conversation rather than starting a new one.

'Hey,' she said. 'Would you look at that?'

The smile on his face immediately turned amused. 'What?'

'I didn't have to wait another three years to see you.'

A laugh escaped him. 'Trying to do better, you know.'

'Good.'

'I heard my reputation suffered.'

'Suffered?' Y/N repeated. 'You were one missed family gathering away from becoming folklore.'

The conversation resumed so naturally that neither of them seemed particularly aware of it happening.

A week earlier, their first meeting had carried a certain novelty. Not awkwardness exactly, but awareness. The strange realization that they were finally speaking to someone whose name had existed in their lives long before the person themselves. Now, that initial curiosity had already softened around the edges. The introductions had been made. The polite questions had been asked and answered. Whatever uncertainty might have existed between two people meeting for the first time had quietly disappeared somewhere during those hours spent talking beneath string lights at Jermajesty's birthday.

Unfortunately, Abu Bakr had very little interest in allowing adults to dictate the flow of events.

The little boy had been watching the exchange closely, paintbrush still clutched in one hand, as though assessing whether enough time had been spent on greetings. Apparently reaching a conclusion, he marched forward with complete confidence and grabbed Jaafar's wrist before anyone could react.

Y/N immediately recognized that look.

It was the same expression Abu Bakr wore whenever he had already made a decision on behalf of everyone else.

The child stopped beside the outdoor table and pointed decisively toward the empty chair next to her.

'Sit.'

For a moment, Jaafar simply looked at him.

Then at the chair.

Then briefly toward Y/N.

'Honestly, I'd listen if I were you.' She said nodding to him.

Jaafar glanced toward her. 'Yeah?' His mouth twitched.

The exchange earned a look of approval from Abu Bakr, who appeared pleased that everyone was finally behaving reasonably.

With exaggerated resignation, Jaafar surrendered.

He dropped his gym bag beside the table and pulled out the chair, the movement itself should have been completely insignificant. Just a chair, a place to sit, yet Y/N found herself unexpectedly aware of his presence the moment he settled beside her. Close enough that she noticed things she hadn't during the birthday party. The faint scent of soap and cologne lingering. The way he immediately pushed his sleeves higher along his forearms without seeming conscious of doing it. The slight fatigue still lingering around his eyes despite the easy smile that seemed to come naturally whenever he spoke.

Normal observations.

For years, Jaafar had existed almost entirely through secondhand information. Stories from Jermajesty. Family anecdotes told around dinner tables. The occasional photograph that appeared during birthdays or holidays. A person she'd somehow become familiar with without ever actually knowing.

The reality sitting beside her felt considerably more human than the version she'd assembled from stories. And for reasons she couldn't quite explain, that realization lingered.

Oblivious to the brief spiral of thoughts occurring beside him, Jaafar surveyed the disaster zone spread across the table.

Paint covered almost every available surface, several brushes had somehow disappeared beneath sheets of paper, one cup of water had already turned an alarming shade of green.

His gaze landed on Abu Bakr's latest creation.

A long silence followed. 'Uhhh what exactly am I looking at?'

Abu Bakr brightened instantly.

The little boy lifted the painting with obvious pride.

The page was entirely green, not mostly green. Entirely green.

Jaafar studied it carefully, the seriousness on his face only made the situation worse. Eventually he nodded. 'Oh, is it the Hulk?'

'It's the sun.' The answer came with immediate confidence.

Another thoughtful pause followed.

Then Jaafar nodded again.

'Of course it is.'

Y/N immediately laughed, making Jaafar smile at that.

For the next hour, the afternoon settled into the sort of comfortable rhythm that seemed unique to days spent at the Jackson house. Time passed without announcing itself. Conversations drifted between topics without anyone noticing the transitions. At some point, painting became secondary to talking. Abu Bakr remained determined to create masterpieces, but his attention wandered frequently enough that most of the work fell to Y/N and Jaafar keeping him occupied between bursts of artistic inspiration.

The conversation moved just as easily. One topic led naturally into another: music became travel, travel became childhood stories, childhood stories somehow became Jermajesty.

That particular transition proved dangerous almost immediately.

'Wait,' Jaafar said, turning toward her slightly. 'He actually set off a fire alarm?'

Y/N stared at him. 'That's the story he told you? That's not even the worst one.'

'There are multiple stories?' The horror in his voice made her laugh.

'Several.'

By the time she finished explaining the incident involving microwave popcorn, a dormitory kitchen and what Jermajesty later described as a completely avoidable misunderstanding, Jaafar was laughing hard enough that he had to lean back in his chair.

For a moment she found herself smiling before she'd even registered why.

Abu Bakr chose to proudly hold up another finished masterpiece.

This one was completely blue.

The transformation from green to blue appeared to be the only major difference.

Jaafar studied it. 'Ocean?'

'No.'

'Whale?'

'No.'

Y/N looked at the painting.

Then at Abu Bakr.

Then back at the painting.

'What is it?'

The little boy beamed.

'The sun.'

For a moment, complete silence settled over the table.

'The sun, Y/N, how could you not see it?' Jaafar said mocking offense. 

'Silly me!' 

Then both adults dissolved into laughter.

For a while, the afternoon settled into the kind of comfortable rhythm that seemed unique to the Jackson house.

The conversation drifted wherever it pleased, moving between topics without any clear transitions while Abu Bakr remained convinced he was creating masterpieces. Y/N had long since stopped trying to understand the artistic logic behind his paintings. At some point, the sun had been green. Later it became blue. Then purple. None of these developments appeared to concern him. Every new creation was presented with exactly the same confidence as the last, and somehow that confidence made criticism feel impossible.

Jaafar, unfortunately, was no help whatsoever.

Rather than encouraging artistic accuracy, he seemed determined to support whatever increasingly questionable choices Abu Bakr made. Every time Y/N pointed out that the sun wasn't supposed to be purple or that trees generally weren't bright orange, Jaafar immediately took the opposite position simply because he found her reaction amusing. The realization arrived gradually, settling somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement. He wasn't being difficult because he believed what he was saying. He was being difficult because he enjoyed watching her argue back.

It was a trait she recognized almost immediately. 

'You know,' Jaafar said eventually, studying Abu Bakr's latest painting with a seriousness it absolutely did not deserve, 'I think mine would've been better.'

Y/N looked up from her own paper, for a moment she genuinely thought she'd misheard him. 'What exactly would've been better?'

'The painting.' His answer came so naturally that she almost laughed.

Across the table, he remained completely relaxed, one arm resting against the back of his chair while he observed the artwork in front of him like a professional critic evaluating a gallery exhibit. The confidence in his voice would have been impressive if it weren't so entirely unearned.

'You haven't painted anything.'

'I don't need to.'

The response arrived immediately and Y/N stared at him for several seconds, waiting for the punchline that never came.

'That's not how art works.'

'How do you know?'

'Because unlike you, I've actually touched a paintbrush today.' She said pointing at him with her paintbursh.

Rather than appearing convinced, Jaafar simply smiled. The kind of smile worn by someone who was fully aware they were being annoying and had absolutely no intention of stopping. 'I can already tell.'

'Based on what?'

He shrugged. 'Instinct.'

The laugh escaped before she could stop it.

The answer was so ridiculous that arguing almost felt pointless. Almost. Unfortunately, the longer she looked at him, the more she became convinced that allowing him to walk away from this conversation believing he'd somehow won would be deeply irresponsible.

Apparently, Jaafar reached a similar conclusion.

Because ten minutes later, despite neither of them being entirely sure how they'd gotten there, fresh sheets of paper had appeared on the table, clean brushes had been collected, and Abu Bakr had been officially appointed judge.

The title transformed him immediately, because one moment he had been painting and the next he was overseeing the competition with all the authority of a referee at a championship event. Y/N suspected the position had gone directly to his head.

The rules changed constantly. Every attempt to establish them turned into another argument. At one point they spent nearly five minutes debating whether artistic talent could be inherited despite neither of them having any evidence that either family possessed any artistic talent whatsoever. Another discussion followed regarding whether looking in the general direction of the opposing painting constituted cheating.

Jaafar argued no.

Y/N argued yes.

Abu Bakr solved the issue by announcing that everyone was cheating.

After that, things somehow became even less organized. By the time they actually started painting, both of them were taking the competition far more seriously than anyone reasonably should have. The realization might have been embarrassing if it weren't so entertaining.

At some point, Abu Bakr wandered away.

The little boy had spent most of the afternoon moving unpredictably between activities, appearing and disappearing whenever something else caught his attention. One of his cousins must have called him over because suddenly he was gone, leaving behind abandoned paintbrushes and half-finished artistic opinions.

The absence only became noticeable later.

By then, the backyard had softened around them. Conversations continued elsewhere. Music drifted faintly through the open back door. Family members crossed the patio carrying drinks and plates of food. The afternoon sun had shifted lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the grass. Yet somehow the world beyond the table had faded into the background.

Jermajesty eventually wandered into the backyard and stopped beside the table, his confusion felt entirely justified. He looked from Y/N to Jaafar and then to the papers they were aggressively hiding from one another.

For several seconds, he simply stared. 'Are you guys painting?'

Neither looked up.

The answer came simultaneously. 'Mhm.'

That only seemed to make him more confused.

For several seconds, he remained exactly where he was, drink still in hand, staring at the scene in front of him as though attempting to piece together a puzzle with several missing pieces. From his perspective, the situation probably did look absurd. Y/N and Jaafar sat on opposite sides of the outdoor table, both hunched protectively over sheets of paper they refused to let the other see, while paint pots, brushes and cups of cloudy water occupied every available inch of space between them. The fact that neither had bothered looking up when he arrived likely wasn't helping.

'You've been out here forever.'

'Busy,' Y/N informed him.

'Doing what?'

'Winning.'

Across from her, Jaafar immediately looked offended. 'That's a bold thing to say when you've got no idea what I'm painting.'

'I don't need to see it.'

The exchange did absolutely nothing to clarify the situation for Jermajesty. If anything, it seemed to make it worse.

Before he could continue questioning either of them, Alejandra appeared through the back door carrying a bowl of fruit. Unlike her son, she took one glance at the table and immediately understood exactly what was happening.

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. 'Oh no.'

Jermajesty pointed toward them. 'They've been doing this for an hour.'

'Clearly.'

Alejandra looked entirely too entertained. 'Leave them alone.'

Jermajesty gestured helplessly toward the table.

'I feel like I should be concerned.'

'You should definitely be concerned.' The response came from Y/N.

Alejandra laughed again.

Then, without another word, continued across the backyard. Jermajesty lingered for a few seconds longer before eventually shaking his head and following her.

The moment they disappeared, silence settled briefly between the two painters.

For a while, the only sounds came from brushes moving against paper and the distant hum of conversations drifting from elsewhere in the yard.

Y/N found herself unexpectedly aware of how peaceful it felt.

The afternoon had started hours ago, yet somehow the day still seemed suspended in place. Nothing important needed to happen. Nobody expected anything from her. There were no deadlines waiting at home, no responsibilities demanding attention. Just sunlight, music drifting faintly through the open windows, and the strange reality that she was spending her Saturday afternoon arguing about art with a man she'd only met properly a week earlier.

The thought should have felt strange but instead, it felt oddly normal and the ease of it is what surprised her the most because some people required effort. Not necessarily in a bad way, but every interaction involved a period of adjustment, a process of figuring out rhythms and boundaries and personalities. Conversations took time to find their footing.

That never seemed to happen with Jaafar.

The words simply...flowed.

One topic became another without either of them noticing the transition. Jokes turned into stories. Stories became questions. Questions became entirely new conversations. The hours slipped past with a kind of effortless momentum that reminded her uncomfortably of how her friendship with Jermajesty had started years ago.

The realization lingered longer than she expected.

Across the table, Jaafar glanced up suddenly.

Immediately, Y/N narrowed her eyes.

'Were you looking?'

His expression shifted to one of complete innocence. 'Looking at what?'

'My painting.'

'I wasn't.'

'You absolutely were.'

'I literally wasn't.'

The speed of the denial convinced her of nothing.

In fact, it made her more suspicious. 'You looked.'

'I didn't, i just looked at you'

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, impossible to miss. The sight immediately confirmed her suspicions and his laugh arrived a second later.

Y/N felt herself smiling before she could stop it.

By the time they finally reached the end of their masterpieces, both of them had become entirely convinced of their own victory.

Both paintings were finished. Both artists had run out of excuses to keep adding details. Then, almost simultaneously, they turned the pages around.

The silence that followed lasted several seconds.

Not because either painting was impressive, it was quite the opposite.

Y/N stared at what was apparently supposed to be a dog or at least she assumed it was a dog.

The creature possessed four legs, which seemed promising, but beyond that she found herself struggling. Its proportions were questionable. Its facial expression suggested years of unresolved trauma. One ear appeared significantly larger than the other.

Across the table, Jaafar looked equally disturbed by what he was seeing. 

'what is that?' The question left both of them at the exact same time.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Y/N looked down at her own painting and she immediately understood his concern. Somewhere during the creative process, her flower had developed features that no flower should ever possess. The petals were uneven. The colours made no sense. The entire thing looked vaguely alive.

The longer she stared at it, the worse it became.

A laugh escaped first and within seconds, both of them were laughing too hard to defend themselves properly.

The laughter lingered longer than either of them seemed willing to admit.

Part of it came from the paintings themselves. They truly were terrible. Not in the charming, accidentally impressive way people sometimes described amateur artwork to spare feelings. They were genuinely awful. The longer Y/N looked at them, the more details she discovered that somehow made the situation worse. What she'd originally intended as a flower now resembled something halfway through a transformation sequence. Meanwhile, Jaafar's dog appeared to possess an alarming level of emotional awareness. The expression on its face suggested it had witnessed events no animal should ever experience.

'It is clearly a dog.' He said pointing at his painting.

'Clearly?'

'It has four legs.'

'So does a table.'

Jaafar looked offended. 'That's not fair.'

'It absolutely is.'

'No, because tables don't have faces.'

Y/N pointed directly at the painting. 'Neither does that.'

The laugh that escaped him forced him to look away. For several seconds, he rubbed a hand across his face, unsuccessfully attempting to recover whatever remained of his dignity.

Unfortunately, Abu Bakr chose that exact moment to reappear.

The little boy approached the table carrying a juice box and immediately sensed that something important had happened. His gaze moved between the two paintings before settling on the expressions of the artists themselves.

'What happened?'

Y/N pointed at Jaafar's paper.

'Tell him.'

Abu Bakr leaned forward.

Studied the dog.

Then nodded.

'Doggie.'

The declaration was immediate.

Y/N stared at him. 'Are you serious?'

'Jaafar 1 - Y/N 0.' Jaafar looked entirely too pleased with himself.

For a while, the three of them remained gathered around the table, discussing artwork that absolutely did not deserve discussion. Somehow the conversation evolved into Abu Bakr explaining what he would have painted if he'd been allowed to compete. The explanation involved dinosaurs, race cars, three suns and something that may or may not have been a dragon. Y/N lost track approximately halfway through.

Jaafar nodded as though every word made perfect sense.

Eventually, he reached for his phone Y/N didn't think anything of it. Then she saw where he was aiming the camera.

'Oh, no.'

The response only made his smile widen.

'Oh, yeah.'

'Jaafar.'

'I need evidence.'

'You absolutely do not.'

The phone lifted higher.

Y/N immediately reached for the paintings.

The camera clicked.

By the time he finally lowered the phone, Y/N had accepted defeat. The evidence existed now. Nothing short of physically stealing the device would change that, and she suspected such an attempt would only create more photographs.

The competition dissolved naturally, losing importance the same way most things did at the Jackson house. Another conversation started nearby. Someone called Abu Bakr inside. Music changed. Family members moved through the backyard carrying plates and drinks and half-finished stories. The world continued turning around them without paying much attention to the fact that a fierce artistic rivalry had just ended in mutual humiliation.

Gradually, the table began to empty.

Without really thinking about it, Y/N reached for one of the cups and began gathering supplies.

She was halfway through stacking paint pots when she noticed another hand reaching for the same pile. Looking up, she found Jaafar doing exactly what she was. Collecting brushes, organizing supplies, wiping paint from the edge of the table.

The conversation simply continued. For a while they talked about nothing important. Childhood hobbies. Things they were terrible at. Subjects they hated in school. The sort of conversation that wandered without purpose and somehow became more interesting because of it.

At one point, Y/N found herself laughing over a story he'd started telling about one of his early auditions.

For a second she became aware of how comfortable she felt.

A week ago, Jaafar had been someone she'd finally met after years of near misses. Now she was standing beside him washing paintbrushes as though this were something they'd done dozens of times before.

By the time the last brush had been cleaned and the final paint pot put away, the afternoon had begun slipping quietly toward evening. Golden light stretched across the backyard, conversations softened and the energy of the day shifted almost imperceptibly.

And somewhere in the middle of it, Y/N realized it was probably time to go home. The realization carried a faint disappointment she hadn't entirely expected but she ignored it, there was no reason to analyze it.

So instead she grabbed her bag, said goodbye to the family, and convinced herself she was thinking about absolutely nothing when Jaafar automatically fell into step beside her as she headed toward the driveway.

The walk to the driveway happened so naturally that neither of them commented on it.

Y/N wasn't entirely sure when it had become a thing. Maybe it hadn't. Maybe two instances weren't enough to qualify as a pattern. Yet as they moved through the front yard side by side, following the familiar path toward the curb, she found herself remembering the birthday party the week before and the almost identical conversation that had taken place beneath a much darker sky.

At the time, everything had felt new.

The evening air felt cooler than it had earlier that afternoon. Somewhere down the street, a sprinkler hissed quietly across a front lawn. The sounds of the house remained audible behind them, laughter and conversation drifting through open windows as another gathering continued without them.

Eventually, Jaafar glanced toward her.

'I still think mine was better.'

Y/N stopped walking then stared at him. 'Are you serious?'

A smile immediately appeared. 'If we're being objective.'

'There is nothing objective about that sentence.'

'There absolutely is.'

'You painted a traumatized dog.'

His laugh arrived instantly.

'It wasn't traumatized.'

'It looked like it had seen things.'

'It had depth.'

By the time they reached her car, the argument had somehow evolved into a debate regarding artistic interpretation and whether emotional support should be offered to fictional animals.

Neither had managed to win.

The outcome felt appropriate.

As she unlocked the driver's side door, the conversation finally began slowing naturally.

The silence that settled between them carried none of the awkwardness people often associated with goodbyes. It felt familiar instead. Comfortable enough that neither seemed in any particular rush to break it.

Then Jaafar nodded toward her. 'Drive safe.'

The simplicity of the statement shouldn't have mattered.

Yet something about it felt strangely warm.

'Always do.' The immediate look he gave her suggested he didn't believe that for a second. Y/N laughed. 'Okay, most of the time.'

'Mhm, that's better.'

For a moment his smile lingered.

Then hers did too.

By the time Y/N finally made it home, the day had already begun settling into memory.

Not the distant kind. Not yet. The details remained clear enough to reach for. She could still picture the paint-covered table in the backyard. Still hear Abu Bakr passionately defending artistic choices that made absolutely no sense. Still see the expression on Jaafar's face when he'd insisted his dog looked perfectly normal despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Yet the afternoon had acquired that familiar softness good days often seemed to develop almost immediately, the edges smoothing before the day itself had even properly ended.

A shower, her pjs and a late dinner eventually signaled the transition into evening. The house had grown quiet around her. The television played softly in the background, providing more noise than entertainment, while she scrolled absently through her phone from beneath the blankets. Most of her attention wasn't really on the screen. 

Somewhere between one post and the next, in the 'post you might like' section, a familiar username appeared.

Y/N's thumb hesitated, then tapped.

The post opened.

At first, nothing seemed unusual about it. A photo dump.

A photograph from rehearsal.

Another from what looked like a soundstage.

A sunset.

The kind of photo dump people posted every day.

Her gaze dropped briefly to the caption.

jaafarjackson: good things this week :)

The words themselves were simple enough. Easy to overlook. Yet something about them made her smile before she even continued scrolling. There was a casual sincerity to it that felt oddly familiar, as though it belonged to the same person who had spent an unreasonable amount of time arguing that a traumatised-looking dog qualified as artistic excellence.

The fourth slide appeared.

Y/N stopped immediately.

Then laughed.

The paintings.

For a moment she simply stared at the screen, unable to believe that those awful paintings had somehow survived the editing process. The camera had been entirely unforgiving. Whatever confidence either of them had possessed that afternoon had vanished beneath the harsh reality of photographic evidence. Her flower looked increasingly alarming the longer she examined it. Jaafar's dog hadn't improved either. If anything, the photograph had somehow made its expression even more concerning.

Yet there they were.

Side by side presented with the same importance as rehearsal photos, sunsets and family moments.

Y/N found herself lingering on the image longer than she intended. Long enough to remember the sound of their laughter when they'd first revealed the paintings. Long enough to remember how absurdly competitive the entire thing had become. Long enough to remember standing beside him while they cleaned the table afterward, talking about absolutely nothing important while the afternoon slowly dissolved into evening around them.

Eventually she kept scrolling.

A few more photographs.

Another video.

A family picture.

Yet by the time she reached the end of the post, she found herself returning briefly to the caption.

good things this week :)

The simplicity of it made her smile again locked her phone and set it on the nightstand beside her.

Several minutes passed when the vibration of her phone startled her slightly.

At first she almost ignored it.

Then she reached for it and glanced down.

The notification sat waiting on the screen.

jaafarjackson started following you.

For a second, Y/N didn't react.

Her gaze simply lingered on the words.

Not because the follow itself was particularly surprising. The possibility had crossed her mind more than once over the past week. They'd met twice now. Spent hours talking. Shared enough conversations that the gesture felt perfectly normal.

For years, Jaafar had existed almost entirely through stories she'd heard from other people. Through family anecdotes and secondhand conversations and photographs she happened to glimpse whenever Jermajesty was scrolling through his phone. Even after finally meeting him, part of her still occasionally felt like she was catching up to a person everyone else already knew.

For the first time, she no longer felt like she was standing on the outside of those stories looking in.

Without entirely meaning to, she'd become part of one.

The thought lingered long after the screen went dark.

And when Y/N finally placed her phone back on the nightstand, the smile that followed her into sleep arrived far too easily to blame on a pair of terrible paintings.