“Mom?”

 “Mhm?”

 “A friend is coming over. On Saturday. To help with… uh, drawing.”

 The kitchen froze for exactly one second. Only the kettle kept bubbling like nothing dramatic had happened.

But his mom turned around slowly — the same expression she had the day she found a fossilized slice of pizza under his bed.

 “A friend?”

 “Yeah. A friend.”

 Her eyes narrowed. Precision level: airport security scanner.

 “Just a friend?”

 “Mom…”

 “I’m simply asking. A mother is allowed to know who’s bravely volunteering to fix your marker disasters. Is it that girl… Marisa?”

 Nick dropped into a chair with a sigh and nodded.

 “Yeah. She’s helping with the talent show poster. Because I… well, you’ve seen how I draw.”

 “I have. It definitely requires external intervention.”

 “Thanks, Mom.”

 She smiled, turned back to the fridge.

 “I’ll cook something. Something tasty. Something that looks impressive… but not like I tried to look impressive.”

 “Just—please—no mac ’n’ cheese,” Nick threw in over his shoulder.

 His mom froze mid-motion, holding a box of macaroni like it had personally offended her.

 “What’s wrong with mac ’n’ cheese?”

 “It’s… in it's past, Mom. Long story. Just trust me.”

“I see. Very well. But cleaning is on you.”

The next two days turned Nick into a domestic maniac. He scrubbed every surface like he was preparing for a chemical safety inspection. Checked how the couch smelled. Moved a plant three different times. Lit an aroma candle and stood beside it, evaluating the scent like a high-end perfumer.

 A brand-new set of markers lay neatly on his shelf. He even googled what pastel tones were.

 And somewhere in the middle of this transformation, a thought hit him:

What if she isn’t just coming to draw?

What if this is… an actual date, hiding behind “creative work”?

 And for the first time — the thought didn’t scare him. Not even a little.

That Same Evening — at Marisa’s Place

From the kitchen doorway, Marisa called out:

“I won’t be home on Saturday. I’m going to… uh… draw at a friend’s place.”

Her mom and dad turned toward her at the exact same moment — synchronized, like they’d rehearsed it.

 “To whose place?” her dad asked first.

 “A friend’s. His name is Nick.”

 A pause followed. A long one.

 “Nick…” her mom echoed slowly. “Is he in your class?”

 “Parallel class,” Marisa answered, trying to sound as casual as possible. “We’re working on the poster for the talent show.”

 Her dad tilted his head, still cautious.

 “You’ve known him long?”

 “A few weeks. He’s… kind. And a bit weird.” She paused. “But in a good way.”

 Her parents exchanged a look — one of those quick glances full of quiet meaning: She’s talking about someone warmly. That matters.

 “Well…” her mom said, pulling a few bills from her wallet, “don’t go empty-handed. Buy something for tea. A pastry or something nice.”

 “Seriously?” Marisa blinked. “It’s not like a date.”

 “We didn’t say it’s a date,” her dad smiled. “But going to someone’s home — that’s special. And we’re glad you’re going.”

 Marisa took the money. She felt a bit embarrassed… but also a little warm inside.

 When she walked toward her room, her parents stayed in the kitchen.

“It’s good she’s going,” her dad said quietly. “She hasn’t really talked to anyone for a long time.”

 “Yes…” her mom agreed softly. “But we need to change too. We can’t let her close off again. I can’t live through another year like the last one.”

Saturday turned out surprisingly sunny.

 Marisa walked down the street with steady steps, though her heartbeat was a little too fast. A bag hung over her shoulder; inside the flash drive — three flyer drafts, a poster sketch, and a handful of color ideas.

 In her hands — a neatly wrapped cake box. From that café. The one that always smelled like childhood.

 She checked the address again. Yep. The right one. A big house. Two floors. A lawn trimmed so perfectly it looked ironed. A white mailbox.

 Nick lives here? Really?

 She approached the door and rang the bell.

 Bzzz.

 The door creaked open…And there he was.

 “Hey!” Nick blurted — a bit too loudly. “Did you get here okay? You found the place? That weird turn isn’t confusing? Because sometimes...”

 Oh, Nick. When he’s nervous, he boils over like a kettle. 

“Everything’s fine. I didn’t get lost.”

 A woman appeared beside him — warm smile, calm eyes, the kind that say I see everything.

 “Welcome,” she said gently. “I’m Olivia, Nick’s mom. It’s very nice to meet you.”

 “Marisa. But you can call me Mari. It’s a pleasure for me too,” she replied, handing over the box. “A small treat.”

 “Oh, thank you! I can already tell you have good taste,” Olivia joked, accepting the cake.

 And then — RRRRRRAFF!

 Marisa spun around.

 A tiny red cocker spaniel shot around the corner like a fuzzy rocket, tail wagging so hard it looked like she was trying to lift off the ground.

 “That’s Millie,” Nick said quickly. “She… uh… loves new people. And I think… she’s excited to see you.”

 Marisa crouched down, petting the floppy-eared tornado bouncing around her like a spring.

 “Hey, Millie. You’re just as ginger as your owner.”

 “Is it okay she’s so… forward?” Nick asked, a little embarrassed. “She gets very emotional.”

 “So do I,” Marisa smiled. “We’ll get along great.”

 Olivia watched them for a few seconds longer, then said softly:

 “I’ll leave you two alone. Nick, don’t forget to show her where the tea is. And the blankets. And let her know there’s no mac ’n’ cheese in the house — I threw it out yesterday.”

 “Moooom!” Nick groaned.

 “What? I just want this visit to be trauma-free,” she replied, walking to the kitchen with the cake.

 Nick rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at Marisa.

 “Uh… come on. My room’s ready.”

 And with that, they headed toward his room — where sheets, markers, soft sunlight… and something new, warm and quiet, were already waiting for them.