The second hand on Marin's wall clock seemed louder than usual, each tick slicing through the room like a reminder that time was running out. Her bedroom was a small square of soft pink walls and scattered clutter—a space that usually felt comforting, but tonight it felt cramped and airless, as if it were holding its breath with her. She stood in front of the mirror, hands hovering uselessly in the air, unsure of whether to start with her hair, her outfit, or her shoes.
It wasn't just any party. It was her first real teen party—no parents hovering in the corner with fruit punch, no relatives dropping in to comment on how much she'd grown. Just loud music, flashing lights, and her peers—people her own age who already seemed to know how to exist in such spaces. She felt like she'd been dropped at the edge of a foreign country with no map.
Her hair fell in soft, uneven waves over her shoulders, a result of a half-hearted attempt at curling it. She'd spent nearly an hour twisting strands around the iron, but half of them had stubbornly fallen flat. She stared at her reflection, tilting her head left, then right, trying to decide if the mess looked intentional enough to pass for effortless.
She had laid out three outfits on her bed earlier—each a possible version of herself she could take to the party.
Option one: a simple pastel dress with a bow at the waist, something her aunt had given her last spring. It was sweet, safe, and utterly boring.
Option two: ripped jeans and a fitted black top that whispered confident but screamed trying too hard to her anxious mind.
Option three: a loose, cream-colored blouse tucked into a denim skirt—a look she thought might strike the perfect middle ground between casual and dressed-up.
She stared at them like they were puzzle pieces that refused to fit. Her chest tightened. This was ridiculous—it was just a party, wasn't it? But it wasn't. Not to her.
Her fingers brushed over the denim skirt. The fabric was cool, with faint creases from sitting folded all afternoon. She imagined herself walking into the party in it, the hem brushing against her thighs as she moved, catching the warm air and the smell of teenage life.
She paced from the bed to the dresser, pulling open drawers and then closing them again without taking anything out. Her eyes drifted to the small makeup pouch resting near her lamp. She didn't wear makeup, but tonight felt like the kind of night where she should.
She unzipped it slowly, as if opening it too fast might unleash something uncontrollable. Inside were the basics: a small compact of powder, a mascara wand, and a tube of lip gloss in a shade she'd only ever worn around the house. She dabbed a little powder onto her face, watching in the mirror as her skin took on a slightly more even tone. Then, with trembling hands, she lifted the mascara wand. Her lashes darkened and lengthened under her touch, each blink feeling heavier than the last. The lip gloss was the final step—she swiped it on, the faint scent of vanilla settling in the air.
She leaned closer to the mirror, examining the stranger staring back at her. The difference was subtle, but it was there—a softness around the eyes, a sheen on the lips. It wasn't perfect, but maybe perfect wasn't the point.
The clock's hands had crept closer to 7:15. She needed to decide. Her eyes flicked once more to the bed, to the three waiting outfits. She reached for the cream blouse and denim skirt before she could talk herself out of it. The blouse felt light against her skin, the fabric whispering as she adjusted it over her shoulders. She tucked it neatly into the skirt, smoothing it down before fastening the small brass button.
For shoes, she chose her white sneakers—clean enough to pass as deliberate, comfortable enough to keep her grounded. She laced them up slowly, each loop and pull giving her an excuse to pause.
Once dressed, she stood in the middle of her room, uncertain of what to do with her hands. She picked up a small silver necklace from her desk—just a delicate chain with a single pendant shaped like a star. She clasped it around her neck, the cool metal settling against her skin.
She took one last look at herself in the mirror. Her reflection seemed to hold its breath along with her. This was it. No more pacing, no more rearranging.
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Marin stepped out of her room minutes later, the faint creak of her bedroom door breaking the serenity of the hallway. She took a breath, smoothing down the skirt of her outfit, and began descending the staircase. Each step seemed to echo her anticipation—soft footfalls against polished wood—as she caught sight of Kant waiting on the couch, his legs casually crossed, though his eyes had clearly been glued to the clock moments before.
The lamplight in the living room painted her in a gentle golden glow as she came into full view. Her hair had been carefully brushed and tucked behind her ears, her light perfume drifting faintly into the air, mixed with the scent of the freshly brewed tea Kant had made for himself earlier. She carried a small clutch in her hand, swinging slightly with her steps, and her smile—wide, genuine, and filled with an energy he hadn't seen in her for a while—hit him like a warm gust of summer wind.
Kant's chest softened instantly. It wasn't just because she looked nice; it was because she looked happy. That, more than anything, was what made his usually stoic demeanor slip into something more tender. His eyes crinkled, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite himself.
"You look… ready," he said, the words slow, almost hesitant, as if he didn't want to admit how proud—and worried—he felt at the same time.
Marin beamed at him. "I am. I mean… I think I am." There was a small laugh in her voice, the kind that betrayed her nervous excitement.
Kant cleared his throat and shifted on the couch. His mind was already a whirl of protective thoughts, the kind that came uninvited when you were an older brother. As she reached the bottom of the stairs and stood before him, he scratched the back of his neck—his tell when he wasn't sure how to say something without sounding overbearing.
"Okay, so… listen," he began, his tone attempting to be casual but landing somewhere between awkward and serious. "Parties are… fun, yeah, but you're gonna see some things tonight. Like… drinks. People trying to get you to have one. Don't. You're underage, and I'm not about to explain to Dad—or worse, the Mayor—how you ended up with a hangover at sixteen."
Marin chuckled softly, rolling her eyes but not unkindly. "I know, Kant."
"And," he added quickly, leaning forward now with his elbows on his knees, "no boys trying to—uh—be touchy. You know what I mean. If anyone tries, you turn them down and walk away. No… hesitation. No thinking twice.'"
The seriousness in his voice cut through his nervousness for a moment, his gaze locking on hers to make sure she understood. Marin's smile softened into something more gentle, her head tilting as she took in his protectiveness.
"I'll be careful," she promised.
Kant's eyes flicked around her. "You've got your phone with you, right?" he asked, his voice carrying that mix of caution and concern only older brothers could master.
Marin reached into the back pocket of her skirt and pulled out a small silver flip phone — one of those chunky models with a tiny monochrome screen and a stubby antenna. The faint click of it opening echoed in the quiet living room as she waved it in the air with a grin.
"See?" she said, holding it up like it was proof she could survive anything."
Kant gave a small, approving nod. "Good. Call me when you get there," he said, shifting his weight and folding his arms, "and make sure you answer when I ring." His eyes narrowed playfully, but the underlying seriousness in his tone didn't go unnoticed.
Marin's lips curled into a mischievous smile. She straightened her back, lifted her hand in an exaggerated, almost theatrical salute, and said, "Yes, sir!" Her voice carried a mock formality, as if she were a soldier about to follow orders from her commanding officer.
Kant couldn't help but chuckle, the corners of his mouth softening. "Alright, smartass," he said, shaking his head. "Just… have fun. But not too much fun and do get back on time."
Marin rolled her eyes affectionately but gave a small nod before flipping the phone close and tucking it back into the skirt pocket.