Tuesday night, just as I was about to shut off my laptop and pretend I was done with life for the day, Celestia showed up. No call. No text. No warning. Just her, leaning against my doorway with that mischievous look in her eye and a cloth bag dangling from her hand like it contained nuclear codes.
"Put this on tomorrow," she said, dropping it onto my bed.
I blinked. "…Hello to you too."
She ignored that, tugging at the strings of the bag like she was untying a gift she couldn't wait to open, except it was mine. Out came a folded shirt and a fresh pair of sneakers, both looking suspiciously new.
"Wait," I said, already wary. "What is this?"
"Our Valentine's outfits," she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then she pouted—full lips, arms crossed, head tilting just enough to look like she'd practiced in the mirror. "And before you start whining, yes, you're wearing it. No arguments."
