Mira hadn't planned to text Jace.
But three days after the hard drive miracle, she stared at her phone, thumb hovering over his number.
He had only given it to her "in case the files acted up," scribbled on the back of a receipt. Not exactly an invitation. Still, her fingers moved.
Mira: The video works perfectly. My mom would've cried too.
She sent it before she could overthink.
Seconds passed. Then minutes.
Nothing.
She was just setting the phone down when it buzzed.
Jace: Glad it worked. I owed that video a second life.
She smiled. Bit her lip. Then typed again.
Mira: Do you always talk like that?
Jace: Like what?
Mira: Like you're one broken circuit away from writing poetry.
A pause. Then:
Jace: Only when I'm talking to someone who listens.
Her pulse skittered. She didn't know what this was—but she knew she liked it.
---
They started texting every day.
Mostly at night, when the city outside her window faded into a low hum. Their conversations ping-ponged between sarcasm and depth—like digital foreplay wrapped in philosophy and memes.
Mira found out Jace had no social media.
"That's basically a felony," she texted.
"Being hard to find keeps the wrong people out."
"Then why are you letting me in?"
No reply for two minutes.
Then: Because you don't feel wrong.
She stared at that message for a long time.
---
They didn't make plans. Not yet.
But the next Friday, she found herself passing his shop at 6:30 p.m., pretending it was coincidence.
He was inside, as always, tinkering with a monitor that sparked faintly when he touched the wires.
"Careful," she said, pushing open the door. "You'll fry yourself."
Jace looked up. "Wouldn't be the worst way to go."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "You're weird."
"You keep showing up. What does that make you?"
"Possibly weirder."
His mouth tugged upward. "You hungry?"
The question landed like a dropped screw—sharp and unexpected.
She hesitated. "I could be."
He grabbed his jacket without waiting for a clearer answer. "Come on."
---
They ended up at a taco stand six blocks away. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting their faces in hues of lime green and magenta. The tortillas were too oily, the salsa too hot, and Jace somehow ate like he hadn't had real food in a week.
"You've done this before," she said, sipping her soda.
"Lived alone for eight years. I've done everything before."
That surprised her. "Eight years?"
"No family. Not really. Parents split and vanished. Foster bounced me around until I aged out."
She blinked. "And now you fix things."
He nodded, chewing. "And avoid what can't be fixed."
Mira looked down at her plate. "Guess I should worry which category I fall into."
Jace didn't answer right away. Then he said, "You're a project. But not the kind I want to finish."
Her breath caught.
---
They walked back slowly, the city warm and thrumming.
Jace didn't offer to walk her home, and she didn't ask. But when they reached the shop, he paused at the door and looked at her like he was memorizing something.
"You're not like anyone I've met before," he said.
"Good or bad?"
"Still deciding."
She laughed softly. "I'll take that."
He hesitated. "Text me when you get home."
"You're worried about me now?"
"I'm still deciding that, too."
---
Back in her apartment, Mira stared at her reflection.
Same hoodie. Same messy bun. But something had shifted.
She wasn't falling. Not yet.
But she was definitely tilting.
And Jace... Jace was gravity in disguise.