Archive of Our Own

André Grandier is not in love with his neighbor, Oscar François de Jarjayes.

(Or just Oscar, for him… and everyone else, too. Not specifically just for him.)

Sure, his pulse might suddenly triple whenever she brushes past him. And yes, his palms might break into nervous sweats like he’s just seen a grizzly bear every time her hand lands casually on his arm. And okay, maybe breathing gets a little complicated whenever she looks at him for more than three seconds.

But it’s not love.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Unfortunately for André, his grandmother, his friends, and possibly his postman are already painfully aware of the truth; it was love at first sight. Fortunately for André, he denies them all. 

He remembers the moment with humiliating clarity. It was an autumn morning, one year, seven months, eleven days, eight hours… (he can tell you the minutes and seconds too, if you ask him). 

He’d just entered the apartment building when he saw her; this gorgeous, ridiculous, golden-haired woman in a black jean jacket, wrestling with a couch half her size. When she turned around, sunlight hit her face and he got his first glimpse of those eyes; sharp, impossibly blue, and…well, that was it. Goodbye, sanity. Hello, permanent residency on Love Island. (Not the TV show. The actual island with the palm trees.)

She refused his help at first, naturally, Oscar had that proud, self-sufficient thing going on, but five minutes later, he was hauling her bookshelf up three flights of stairs while she carried other boxes. By the time the last piece of furniture was shoved into place, André knew he was doomed.

The rest unfolded like clockwork. Run-ins at the mailbox. Small conversations in the hallway. Late-night rants about work, stories of friends and families, and a lot of common preferences. Ten months later, their lives are so entangled it’s hard to remember what things were like before. His friends know her, her friends know him. They shop for groceries together. They have standing movie nights. Sometimes it feels less like they met a year ago and more like they’ve known each other for almost forever.

André’s even tried dating other people. Three dates, to be exact. Each one was a spectacular failure because all he could think about was how much better the food would taste if Oscar were across the table, stealing fries off his plate and insulting his taste in wine.

It’s maddening, really. Because the more time he spends with her, the worse it gets. Then there are these soft moments, like when they both reach for the same jar of pasta sauce and his hand brushes against hers. Or when they’re cooking and she bumps him with her hip to get more counter space. Or that time she grabbed his wrist absentmindedly to show him some meme on her phone, and he nearly forgot how to read. 

And then there are some not-so-soft, very deadly moments. The swats to his chest when she’s doubled over laughing. The shoulder nudges when she calls him dramatic. The time she fell asleep against him after a long night of ranting about her boss and watching a movie that wasn’t nearly as entertaining as her talking to him, her hair brushing his jaw, and he sat there for two whole hours, afraid to breathe too loudly. All of these moments should’ve left André with several very painful realizations about the glaring intensity of his feelings, but he is a million feet deep in denial. 

~***~

Anyway, this story isn’t about André’s hopelessly unrequited love (well, not only about that). It’s about how he hasn’t been able to talk to Oscar for a whole day.

To be precise, twenty-two hours and fourteen minutes.

Which is why he’s now pacing outside her door before going to work like a man with nothing left to lose, debating whether to knock. Maybe she had a date. Maybe there was an emergency. But in both cases, she would’ve told him. Oscar always tells him. The silence is an exception, and exceptions terrify André.

He hesitates. Then he presses the doorbell.

And waits…
And waits.

Just as he’s about to retreat in defeat, a muffled groan filters through the door. André’s eyes widen. His brain instantly begins sprinting through the Worst Case Scenario Olympics, smuggled-in date (eliminated in the semi-finals), vicious serial killer (a strong contender), and finally some vague, undefined medical emergency. He’s just about to knock again when the door creaks open.

Oscar stands there, and for once in his life, she looks… fragile.

Her skin is pale, her normally sharp blue eyes droopy with exhaustion. Golden hair that usually falls in perfect waves is a mess, sticking out in chaotic tufts. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days and like she doesn’t particularly care if she ever does again.

She’s sick. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that out.

She’d been complaining only last week about how everyone at her office was coughing and sneezing all over the place, muttering angrily about the lack of basic health measures. He’d listened, of course, but right now, all he can think is, God, she looks miserable.

“Are you alright?” he blurts.

“Nooo, André. Do you think I’m alright?” Her voice is nasal and scratchy, every syllable dripping sarcasm. Then she sniffs, scowls. “Go home, or you’ll catch it too.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m immune to all sicknesses,” he declares, raising a hand like he’s swearing an oath before the gods.

Oscar rolls her eyes, too tired to even argue. She steps aside to let him in, muttering something under her breath about stubborn men. He slips inside, automatically locking the door behind him.

She collapses onto her sofa in a dramatic heap, drowning in an oversized shirt and scandalously short shorts. André tries very hard not to notice and fails spectacularly. 

The apartment itself looks like a natural disaster site. There are mountains of tissues, half-empty tea mugs, a graveyard of pill packets, blankets on the sofa, and ordered-in food trays invading the coffee table. 

“I think I have a fever,” Oscar croaks, voice raspier now.

André’s heart lurches. He crouches by the couch, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. Heat sears his skin. She’s as hot as a volcano about to erupt. Literally and figuratively . He focuses on the fever, not on how absurdly soft her face feels beneath his touch.

“You think ?” he mutters, pulling back.  Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy, her lips chapped but still irresistible. For a horrifying second, he wants to kiss her. He swallows it down (God help him). “Have you eaten something or taken your medicines?”

She shakes her head with a groan.

“Okay, I’ll make you some tea. Perhaps soup too. Or all of it. Doesn’t matter. You’re drinking it all anyway,” he frowns. “Then the medicines. Because no medicines without food. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

That earns him a raspy chuckle muffled into a pillow, followed by a wince when laughing hurts.

“André,” she sighs, peeking at him with half-lidded eyes. “I’m not dying, you know that, right?”

“I know,” he says softly. His hand moves on instinct, brushing golden strands of hair from her face. His delusional brain swears her lashes flutter at the touch. “But only because I won’t let it get that far.”

Her lips twitch into the faintest smile. “If you say so…”

André lingers a beat too long, staring at Oscar like an absolute fool, before jolting to his feet and fleeing to the kitchen under the pretense of “being useful”. Though in reality, he’s staring blankly at Oscar’s cabinets like they might magically whisper instructions to him. He then dials the only person who actually knows how to make the kind of soup that could cure both a fever and his broken brain…and then, braces for impact. 

Within three rings, she answers. “Hello, hello, who is it?”

André frowns. “Gran, it’s me. Your phone literally says my name and shows my picture when I call.”

“Where have you been ?” she screeches, ignoring him completely. “You didn’t call me yesterday! Do you want me to die of worry?”

Before André can get a word in, the line goes dead. He blinks. Then his phone buzzes again. It’s a video call this time. Of course.

Rolling his eyes, he accepts, and Granny’s face fills the screen, already mid-rant. “You think you’re too busy to check in? Hmph! Always running around, never eating properly…look at your face, it’s thin! And what is that shirt? Is it wrinkled? André, you’ll never keep a woman if you-”

“Gran!” he cuts in, voice pitched low, glancing nervously toward the living room. Oscar is still bundled on the couch, half-buried under blankets, but she could definitely hear him if he isn’t careful. “I didn’t call to argue about laundry. I need your magic soup recipe. The one you used to make when I fell ill.” Before Granny can start another series of lectures, he quickly adds, “Oscar’s sick.”

Instant silence.

For some context: The soup is called magic because when André was little, he used to despise soup with the kind of passion usually reserved for mortal enemies. But he also got sick a lot, and Granny would plop down a steaming bowl in front of him and insist that if he finished it, whatever he wished for would come true. Provided his “intentions were pure.”

André, gullible as only an eight-year-old with a runny nose can be, believed her. He’d down spoonfuls with his eyes squeezed shut, wishing for things like a puppy, or, once, in a truly ambitious moment, to never have to do math homework again. None of it ever worked, obviously. The puppy never came, and the math homework doubled, but the soup did make him better.

Granny leans so close to the camera that he can count every wrinkle around her eyes. “She’s what?”

“She has a fever,” André explains, keeping his voice firm. “She can barely sit up, and-”

“Oh, mon Dieu!” Granny claps a hand over her mouth. “And you left her lying there alone ? What kind of man are you?”

“I’m literally in her kitchen right now!” André hisses.

“You should have called me the moment you found her!” she barrels on, shaking her head. “I told you to watch over that girl. She works too hard. Too stubborn-”

“Gran,” André tries again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

But Granny is on a roll now. “That poor child. Sick as a bird and no proper care. I am so far right now, or I’d come over there myself. My future granddaughter-in-law cannot be catching pneumonia under my watch!”

André’s heart stops. He nearly drops the phone. “ Gran! ” he whisper-shouts, ducking into the corner of the kitchen like the shadows might hide him. “You cannot say things like that out loud-”

From the couch, Oscar’s voice drifts weakly, “André? Are you… fighting with granny?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “No!” He lowers his voice, desperate. “Yes. No. Don’t worry about it.”

Granny waves him off like a fly. “Bah, she can hear half of it anyway. Now, listen carefully. Get a pot. You’ll need onions, carrots, celery, garlic, lots of it, and don’t you dare skip the chicken broth… aaand a bay leaf if you can find one. Hmm, I think I am forgetting something, ah, right…a parsley at the end. And remember, stir clockwise only, or the broth sulks.”

“Broth does not sulk,” André mutters, dragging ingredients out of Oscar’s fridge.

From the living room, Oscar coughs a laugh. “Did she say stir clockwise?”

André freezes, cheeks flaming. “You...how are you hearing this?”

Oscar’s voice is muffled by her pillow, teasing despite the rasp, “Thin walls.”

Granny beams at him from the screen, triumphant. “See? She’s sharp, even with a fever. Perfect wife materials”, she whispers the last bit. 

André swallows a groan, clutching his phone like it’s conspiring against him. “Gran, for the love of God. I just need the recipe. Only recipe, please. ”

~***~

With Granny’s help (which came with additional lectures), André finally finishes making the soup, carefully balances the steaming bowl of soup in his hands, and now places the bowl down on the messy coffee table in front of her. “Here you go,” he says with mock gravitas. “A soup that has cured generations. You should feel honored.”

She sniffs, leaning over the bowl. Steam curls against her face, making her look oddly soft, her cheeks already pink from fever. She picks up the spoon and takes a cautious sip. He tells his brain to calm the fuck down and not act like he is in love with her for every second of the hour. Because he isn’t in love with her. Not even the slightest bit. 

“…Not bad,” she finally says, sounding almost surprised.

He blinked. “Not bad? That’s it? You’re eating what is essentially liquid gold, and all you can muster is ‘not bad’?”

Her lips quirked. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Grandier. Consider me impressed. But credit does go to Granny since you were just following instructions.”

André feels warmth creep up the back of his neck, though he tries to cover it with a scoff. “You act like I’m helpless in the kitchen.”

“Aren’t you?” Oscar shot back, spoon clinking against the bowl as she went in for another spoon. “Last time I was at your place, you burned toast.”

“That toaster was defective!” he protests.

“Sure it was.” She smirks, enjoying this far too much. “Honestly, if I weren’t half-dead, I’d show you how it’s really done. Proper stock and seasoning, the whole nine yards. I’d follow Granny’s recipe better than you do.”

Typical competitive Oscar, but that’s something he adores about her. 

André crosses his arms, watching her polish off another spoonful. “Uh-huh. And how, exactly, were you planning to cook anything in your state? You nearly keeled over just answering the door.”

“I’d manage,” she says airily. “I’m tougher than a cold.”

“You’d probably burn down the entire building.”

Oscar gives him a mock glare over the rim of her spoon. “Excuse you, I’m perfectly capable. You’re just jealous I’d make it better than you.”

André snorts. “Keep telling yourself that.”

She was quiet for a moment, focusing on her soup. Then, with the kind of casual mischief that only Oscar could pull off, she adds, “Careful, Grandier. If you keep cooking like this, you’d definitely become boyfriend material.”

The words hit him like a misfired arrow. He nearly chokes on his breath, staring at her in disbelief.

Oscar, meanwhile, continues as though she hasn’t just set his heart on fire. She licks a drop of broth from her spoon, eyes glinting with amusement. André tries not to imagine her doing that in an entirely different context, one that has nothing to do with soup and everything to do with ruining his ability to ever look her in the eye again.

Scrambling for composure now with the thoughts of Alain’s dirty socks to ease him off, he hopes she won’t notice the way his ears had gone red. “You’re delirious,” he mutters, reaching to adjust the blanket slipping off her shoulder. “Fever talking.” He reasons that she is talking about other girls, after all, he is suffering from a terrible dating streak. 

“Mm, maybe.” She leans back against the couch, looking far too pleased with herself. “But still true.”

He busies himself with tidying the table, pretending the act of moving mugs around requires his full concentration. Anything to avoid her sharp blue eyes, which had the unnerving habit of seeing right through him.

“Lord of the Rings series kinda-day?” he asks, setting a mug of coffee and a glass of water with her tablet. Bonus. He also made popcorn for both of them. 

Oscar lifts one bleary eye and groans, “Just anything with swords, please.”

He sits on the couch, grabs the remote, and plays the movie on a streaming service, and maybe, just a bit, he thinks that she moves a little closer to him. 

The opening credits roll, golden light flickering across the living room, and a bit later into the movie, the sounds of clashing swords fill the small apartment. Oscar immediately starts pointing out tactical inconsistencies, but also the impeccable choreography. This is one of her ‘feel-good’ movie series that she claims always makes her feel better. 

“That’s how you parry with a longsword! Look, his guard is all correct,” she exclaims, half-sitting up.

André grins, sinking back into the armchair. “Oh no, here we go. Sword-school professor and fan-girl, Oscar at your service. Do I get a gold star if I survive?”

“You can survive, sure,” she says, waving a hand dramatically at the screen. “But I reserve the right to critique and comment proudly at every single move. And don’t think I won’t.”

He realizes that she might be in a state of drowsiness. 

As the first battle scene unfolds, André watches her animatedly explain every tiny detail the stunt coordinators have made to create those “magical” moments. He finds himself distracted not by the screen but by the way her hair falls across her cheek and the little scrunch of her red nose when she gets worked up.

At one point, she leans over to point at the screen, their elbows brushing. André freezes mid-spill of popcorn, a small curse stuck in his throat because of their close proximity. “Careful,” he mutters, though his hand twitches to move closer.

“Careful? You’re sitting in my space, Grandier,” she counters, laughing softly.

“Yes, and you’re encroaching on mine,” he says, voice low, heart hammering. He realizes he isn’t sure where the line between his space and hers really exists anymore.

She doesn’t answer, just leans back into her blankets and sighs. André allows himself a slow exhale, hands fidgeting with his phone. 

More than an hour or so into the first movie, the fever is starting to take its toll. Oscar’s eyelids droop, and the once-sharp critiques become soft murmurs.

“And…uh, this scene is so perf, he’s… snore …”

He gently tucks the blanket snugly over her, making sure she is comfortable without waking her.

~***~

André’s phone buzzes against the coffee table, screen flashing. He glances down, careful not to jostle the couch. The group chat name alone makes him want to groan.

WhatsApp: Power Rangers Squad

He opens it.

• Alain: @Andre, you’re late to work.
• Alain: Also, if your bus breaks down again, I’m not rescuing you.
• Bernard: Wouldn’t even matter, that’d be the sixteenth time.

André thumbs back a reply.

• André: Not coming in today.

There’s a pause, then

• Alain: Finally. Don’t have to see your face.
• Bernard: What’s the occasion?

André sighs. He considers lying; he could just say he’s sick. He knows what he’s about to hear next. 

• André: Oscar’s sick. Taking care of her.

The typing dots appear instantly.

• Bernard: OHHHH the girlfriend is sick 
• André: we are just friends
• Alain: say no more. Take the day off. Take the week off. But it’s protocol that we demand photographic evidence of the patient and her caretaker.

André nearly chokes on his coffee. He fumbles to set the coffee mug down before it sloshes everywhere.

• André: Soup is made. Patient asleep. Photos strictly forbidden.
• Alain: is that the magic soup Granny talks about? 
• Bernard: Bruh. Wow. You never made soup for me.
• Alain: or me. I’ve been your gf for longer than she has. 

André runs a hand down his face, heat crawling up his neck. He risks a glance at Oscar. The blanket has slipped from her arm, exposing her hand to the cool air. With careful fingers, he tucks it back in, brushing her knuckles lightly before he can stop himself. She stirs, but doesn’t wake.

• Bernard: Oh shoot @Andre, we promised we’d send the Swede client report today. 
• Alain: oh boii, end of love story here and the start of work story 
• Andre: There is no love story 
• Andre: It’s almost done. Let me just work on it now, and I’ll send it over in an hour or so.  
• Alain: send us some soup too

He tells himself he should go home and start to work. He could leave a note. Tell her to ring if she needs anything. But as he shifts to stand, she stirs again. A small sound, a half-formed word.

“Grand…ier?”

André freezes, pulse hammering.

“I’m right here,” he says quietly, even though she’s half-asleep and won’t remember.

Her lips part, murmuring something too soft to catch. “Stay. Please.”

He doesn’t know if she says it or if his sleep-deprived brain invents it, but it roots him to the spot.

He hesitates, then answers anyway. “Alright. But one condition.”

Her lashes flutter as her eyes open just enough to catch him in a hazy blur. “Condition?”

“You need to sleep properly in your room.”

Her mouth tilts into the faintest smile, but finds difficulty in protesting otherwise. “You’re impossible.”

André huffs, half-laugh, half-groan. But he helps her up gently, one arm steadying her as she leans against him. The brush of her hand on his sleeve sends a sharp shiver down his arm. In her room, he eases her onto the bed, tugging the blankets around her shoulders. She catches his wrist briefly before letting go, as if to say thank you without words. He lingers longer than he should before slipping out, pulling the door mostly shut.

He sends in the report he promised within the time frame he promised. Then he proceeds to do the remaining office work he has on his plate. By the time he is done with work and cleaning up the mess that is her living room, the sky outside dims into orange and violet. 

At some point, he checks on her. She is curled beneath her comforter, hair spilling across the pillow like a halo, her breathing even and soft. Something inexplicable aches in his chest (it is longing! He just does not want to admit it). He tells himself she only asked him to stay because someone should make sure she drinks water. And he stays, because it would be rude to leave a sick friend alone.

~***~

He stretches, bones popping, and only now realizes he hasn’t really eaten much himself. His stomach grumbles low. With careful steps, he slips into her small kitchen, rifles through her cupboards, humming under his breath, trying to piece together something light but filling. Eggs, herbs, veggies, pasta, and bread from the kitchen counter. Perfect. He sets to work again, whisking eggs until frothy, chopping herbs fine, sliding the mixture into the pan with a practiced hand. Toast browns beside him, as well as a vegetable pasta in the making. 

It’s almost meditative, the rhythm of it. Chopping, stirring, plating. He thinks of how domestic this feels; him in her kitchen, taking care of her, her asleep in the next room. He wouldn't mind a shared setting for the rest of his life. 

The sudden clank of the bathroom door jolts him.

André freezes mid-stir, spatula in hand. The faint rush of water follows, and realization dawns. She’s in the shower. He sets the spatula down, rubbing his forehead like his grandmother would if she were here.

“Absolutely not,” he mutters under his breath. “Oscar, you’re sick. What are you doing?”

He stands outside the bathroom door for a beat too long, listening to the water hit tile, “You can’t take a shower now, you’ll catch pneumonia. Are you trying to kill yourself?”.

But Oscar’s stubborn…so stubborn.

“Too late,” she screams as much as someone inflicted with a cold can. “I’ll be done in five minutes or thirty”. 

He rolls his eyes. Defeated, he returns to the stove, flipping the eggs with unnecessary force. If she wants to risk her health, fine. He’ll just be ready with a hot plate and an I told you so if she feels worse when she’s finished. He just hopes she doesn’t feel worse. 

The shower cuts off eventually, and André braces himself. He tells himself to focus on the toast, the salad, literally anything other than the image of her stepping out with damp hair and flushed skin-

And then she appears in the kitchen doorway, steam trailing faintly after her.

André almost drops a plate.

Her hair is wet, sticking in loose golden waves around her shoulders, droplets catching the kitchen light like crystals. She’s wearing loose sweatpants and a faded t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. She looks a lot better than this morning, sickness-wise, but ethereal as always. 

He grips the counter, willing himself to breathe like a normal human being. Control yourself, Grandier. She’s sick. She’s your best friend. She does not need you ogling her like a fool.

Her gaze slides to the counter, to the plates of food he’s just finished setting down. “You cooked again.”

“Someone had to,” he mutters, suddenly busy adjusting the toast even though it’s perfectly aligned. “You barely ate today. And don’t even think about arguing, you’re sitting down, Jarjayes.”

She raises both brows. “Bossy.”

“Practical.”

She drifts closer, peering at the scrambled eggs like he’s presented her with haute cuisine instead of the most basic comfort food in existence. She smells like roses and shampoo. 

 “You’re full of surprises, you know that?” she says, propping herself against the counter.

André blinks. “For making eggs?”

“For making them look like this.” She gestures at the plate, then at him with a pointed little smile. “It’s unfair, really. Sick people shouldn’t be this… spoiled.”

He frowns, caught off guard. “Spoiled? You’ve barely eaten today. This doesn’t even count.”

“Oh, it counts.” She leans in just enough that damp strands of hair brush her collarbone, voice dipping playfully. “I might start expecting this kind of treatment every time I catch a cold.”

André lets out a short laugh, completely missing the subtext. “Then you’ll be very disappointed, because I don’t usually make house calls.”

Her grin widens, slow and mischievous. “Guess I’ll just have to get lucky then.”

He blinks, spatula halfway in the air. “Lucky?”

“No, I meant getting sick,” she says innocently, eyes fixed on him like she’s waiting for a reaction.

André is clearly imagining things. 

He tries… and tries to look anywhere else. For instance, at the pan, at the sink, at the bloody fruit salad. But his eyes keep betraying him, flicking back to the curve of her mouth as she eats, to the way she’s leaning too close. Absolutely lethal imagery.

“Sit,” he orders, voice clipped. “Table. Now.”

She smirks but obeys, padding over to the table and collapsing into a chair with exaggerated weariness. “Yes, chef”, then proceeds to blow her nose in a tissue. 

“Hard to admit, but it’s better than mine.” She props her chin in her hand, studying him with a mischievous glint. “Maybe I should hire you as my personal cook. Benefits include free room and board next door, occasional verbal abuse, and-”

He groans. “Eat your dinner.”

“-the undying gratitude of a girl with a casual cold,” she finishes, ignoring him completely.

“Hopeless,” he mutters, stabbing his toast.

But her raspy laugh, which is threaded with warmth, fills the kitchen. She is so perfect, it’s impossible not to be - 

No. André cannot… and should not think down this line. 

Instead, he clears his throat. “Don’t think this means you get another shower tonight or tomorrow. You’ve pushed your luck enough.”

She raises her brows, feigning innocence. “What, are you trying to be like granny now?”

The words slip before he can stop them, “Someone has to be, since you don’t listen to anyone else.”

She snorts. “You sound just like her. I bet she gave you an earful when you called earlier.”

“An understatement,” he mutters, remembering the scolding. And the phrase future granddaughter-in-law, which he is very much trying to forget.

Her smile softens, almost fond, and she nudges his foot under the table. “Thanks, André.”

He looks up, startled.

“For taking care of me,” she says simply, sincerity breaking through the teasing.

André swallows, throat tight. “Always.”

“By the way, you’ve used half the block of butter on this one sandwich,” she mutters, lips twitching.

“You’re welcome,” he deadpans.

She huffs a little laugh, and the sound alone eases something in him. She’s still not fully well; she admits she has a headache lingering behind her temples, but at least she’s eating. The soup did help, but that still doesn’t stop André from worrying. He keeps glancing at her plate, at how much she’s managing, at the way her eyelids droop when she leans back in her chair.

~***~

After the food is done, they continue their movie from the couch, and when the first movie ends, the credits roll with triumphant music, the room settles into a strange kind of warmth. Friday night, no deadlines for once pressing down on him, and instead of being at his desk or on a bus somewhere, he’s here. With her. And it hits him how absurdly easy it is to be around Oscar. How easy it is to….

Again. With the same thought…He doesn’t let himself linger on the word. 

Oscar stretches, yawns into her sleeve, and turns her head toward him with a mischievous gleam that makes him suspicious. “Do you want to play something?”

He frowns. “Like… another movie?”

“No.” Her grin sharpens. “A video game.”

Of course.

She digs out the controllers from under the TV, and within minutes, the screen is filled with cartoon chaos. It’s a game with dueling and swords. She tosses him the spare controller with a smug look that dares him to underestimate her.

“Best two out of three,” she says, lowering herself back onto the couch. 

“Winner gets a wish.”

“This is new. Where did the idea of wishes come from?”

“Granny sent me a voice note saying the soup has magic and that whatever you wish for comes true. She even said you wished for many things, including a pet iguana named Laser, and once… for your math teacher to mysteriously disappear.”

André wishes to disappear from embarrassment. “She told you that? Oh my god. I was eight, and Mrs. Barry didn’t disappear, by the way, she just retired. Totally unrelated.” 

“Mhm, but it’s funny though”. 

“What did you wish for?” he asks inquisitively. 

“Ssshhh. It’s a secret. Focus on the game”. 

He narrows his eyes, accepting the challenge. “Fine. Prepare to lose.”

Twenty minutes later, the smug look is still on her face, and André is staring down at the defeat screen for the second time in a row.

“No,” he mutters. “No way. You cheated.”

Oscar snickers, one hand covering her mouth. “You just suck.”

“I do not suck. That last round didn’t count. I -”

“Nope.” She leans forward, pointing a triumphant finger at him. “A deal’s a deal. I get a wish.”

He exhales through his nose, already regretting this. “Fine. What’s your wish, oh merciless champion?”

Her grin falters, softens. She looks at him, really looks, her crystal blue eyes piercing through his. 

“It’s a question, I need you to answer.”

“Right. Go on then.”

“What are we?” she asks quietly.

The question slams into him like a weight, and he freezes.

“…What?”

Her gaze flicks down, suddenly evasive. “You know. Us. This.”

Panic claws up his throat. Has she found out about his feelings? Is this the end of their friendship? Before he can stop himself, the dumbest possible answer slips out. “Uh…buddies and the very best of friends.”

Her face falls. Just slightly, but he catches it. It does not seem like the answer she was looking for. “Oh. buddies. Sorry. I thought…” She trails off, shaking her head with a tight little smile. “Never mind.”

He blinks, utterly lost. “What?”

“Nothing.” She props her chin on her knees and stares hard at the TV screen, as if the game menu music is the most fascinating thing in the world.

She then reaches for the controller again. “Another game?”

André’s heart kicks uncomfortably in his chest. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He messed up.

He swallows, then blurts, “No, Oscar. What was that?”

“What was what?”, she brushes it off. 

“You were about to...” He leans forward, pulse hammering. “That wasn’t just nothing.”

She sits properly now, holding the controller in her lap, still for a long moment. Then she exhales, shoulders sinking.

“I have to tell you something,” she says finally, voice softer and rawer.

His palms go clammy. “Tell me.”

A faint, terrifying sense of anticipation hums in his veins. The worst possible outcomes flash through his mind, maybe she is leaving the city, or she’s met someone, or or or … , but he braces for them anyway.

She shifts closer, their knees almost touching now, and takes his hand in both of hers. Her fingers are warm against his. 

“André…” She glances down at their joined hands, lashes low over her eyes, words spilling fast, as if she hesitates, the moment will vanish.

“For a couple of months now, there’s been this odd feeling.  And I’ve been trying to make it obvious, but clearly, it’s not working because you never noticed.” Her laugh is soft, a little shaky. “I keep worrying I’ll ruin everything we have, and you mean too much to me for that. But I also can’t keep pretending that this is just friendship or we’re mates , because it isn’t. You’re-” she exhales sharply, squeezing his hand, “you’re my favorite person.”

Finally, she looks up at him, cheeks flushed, voice breaking slightly as she blurts, almost too quickly. 

“André, I think I love you and - .”

I love you. That’s the only thing that sticks in the word soup of hers. He doesn’t think, but just cuts her off mid-sentence. 

In a heartbeat, André’s hands are cradling her face, warm palms against her flushed skin, “I have been in love with you for as long as I can remember, Oscar”, and then his mouth is on hers. He does remember the exact time; that is, it’s just that he can’t miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity because what if she changes her mind? 

The first kiss is desperate and messy, even. The kind of kiss that happens when words aren’t enough, when months of failed attempts at careful distance collapse in one sharp instant. Her lips part in surprise, but then she melts into him, soft and pliant, and the tension in his chest snaps.

She tastes like honey and ginger, and when her hand fumbles up to his neck, her fingertips brushing the short hairs at his nape, André nearly groans into her mouth.

She pulls back a fraction, breathing hard, eyes wide. “André..wait..you’ll get sick..”

“Worth it,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against hers. “I’ve been sick for months anyway. Sick of pretending I didn’t want this.”

Her laughter turns into something muffled as he kisses her cheek, then her jaw. “Stop-” she giggles, “you’re ridiculous.”

“I love you a whole lot, Oscar,” he admits, settling back just enough to see her properly. She’s flushed, lips swollen, eyes shining despite her headache, and he’s hit by the stupid thought that he might never get enough of looking at her.

Her laugh breaks against his lips, shaky and breathless, and then her hands are clutching at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s barely space between them. He feels every shift of her body. The heat of her chest pressed to his, the rise and fall of her unsteady breaths.

When he nips gently at her bottom lip, she gasps, and it shoots straight through him like lightning. He angles his head, lips moving over hers with more purpose now, slower but devastating, savoring her. 

His hand slides down from her cheek, over the line of her jaw, to rest at her hip. He grips gently, grounding himself, but it draws her closer, until she’s practically fully in his lap. 

Her fingers slide higher, into his hair, tugging lightly at the dark, slight curls there. “Fuck”, he swears under his breath, and she moans, as though she’s just as undone as he is. 

His hands slide under the hem of her shirt, caging her in without thinking, desperate to keep her close. and she moans his name. “God, Oscar,” he says against her mouth, pausing just long enough to breathe her in, “I wanted this. I wanted you.”

Her answering kiss is hungry, almost impatient. “Me too,” she whispers, as she works to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

When she breaks away to breathe, he remembers her headache and doesn’t go far. His lips trail along her jaw, down to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. Her sharp inhale makes him smile against her skin, and for a second, he feels bold enough to linger there. 

Eventually, the intensity eases, slowing into softer, lingering pecks. Small, almost reverent kisses between breaths. Their foreheads bump, their noses brush, and he feels her smile against his mouth.

After a beat, she murmurs, “So… does this mean I still get my wish?”

He chuckles, brushing his thumb along her hand. “What wish?”

“I won the game, remember?” she says, tilting her head up with mock-seriousness. “Best two out of three. You owe me.”

He kisses the corner of her mouth, smiling against her skin. “I thought you already cashed it in.”

“The first wish was from the magic soup,” she says, a grin tugging at her lips. “The second wish remains.”

He arches a brow. “That’s unfair.”

“Maybe it is.” She winks, then yawns, curling closer into him. “Maybe it requires a bed, but you’ll find out later.”

André tightens his arm around her, his fingers slipping gently into her hair as she tucks her face against his chest.

Maybe the soup is truly magic after all.