“Well.”

“Well what?”

“Well, this is a surprise.”

“Artifex, come on. I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look at yourself, Ink. Or rather, don’t, because I wouldn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“Which you’re doing by talking, by the way.”

“You seem rather animated today.”

“Is that the surprise?”

“Part of it, anyway. You’ve filled up three pages in the midst of this conversation and you haven’t even touched your coffee yet.”

Ink blinked at her friend. “That’s surprising?”

The boy with cerulean eyes nodded, offering a tiny grin. “In a way. It was just a few days ago that you were complaining that you couldn’t write anything, and yet here you are, bustling away, pen to paper, scribbling and scuffing up the pages as if your life depended on it!”

“I have to get this idea down before I lose it,” she mumbled, writing a few more sentences. “Wouldn’t you understand that better than anyone?”

“Of course.” Artifex sipped his own coffee, his hair flicking itself back. It was getting long. He had commented how he was going to get it cut tomorrow on Sunday, back to its usual length—something that, Ink thought to herself, Adagio would probably like very much.

“I suppose my question,” he continued, “is what happened between then and now?”

She paused her writing to think of an answer. The bustling sound of Sugarcube Corner’s Saturday breakfast rushed filled their ears, the register chiming at regular intervals. The Cakes and Pinkie came in and out of the kitchen and counter, carrying plates of food and receipts for many a satisfied customer. Ink saw at some point Pinkie managing to carry the Cake twins on her shoulders while she passed a dozen muffins to Ditzy, and she even caught Artifex smiling at the sight. That was something she hadn’t known about him until now; he had a soft spot for the kids.

“Nothing happened,” she said, but knew she was lying, and so did he.

“Nothing? Is that so.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “A whole lot of nothing was happening all those days ago, too, and nothing is what precisely happened. Are you telling me this is a different kind of nothing?”

“Maybe it is.” She flipped a page in her journal, having filled up the rest, and placed the pen’s tip at the top. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Not at all. It’s good to see you in a far more productive mood.”

She offered a smile at that. “Yes, and I am grateful for it.”

He still wouldn’t turn away. His smile carried a mischievous glint to it that she found herself comparing to the one Adagio constantly wore. “So? How was it?”

“How was what?” She grabbed her coffee and sipped it.

“How was dinner with Big Mac?”

She did not spit out the drink; she had far too much practice with that and now was experienced enough to never have it happen again. Instead, she held the drink in her mouth for a solid ten seconds, then slowly put down her cup and swallowed.

When she could talk again, her voice came out low and threatening: “Who told?”

“Gaige. Not sure why she told me but she did.”

“And Hazel?”

“She doesn’t know. Yet. Gaige’ll probably tell her on Monday.”

“Great.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I should have figured she’d have told someone. Girl like that can’t keep her girlfriends’ secrets.”

“And you have to keep hers because she has a giant floating death machine in her home. Go figure.”

“We live in a crazy world.”

“A world of supernatural forces beyond mortal control, with a school full of magic-powered girls with a portal to another universe and is now home to four ex-supervillains, with a future beset by magical anomalies at every corner. Crazy doesn’t begin to describe it.”

Artifex tilted his head. “Crazy also doesn’t begin to describe your night out, I would imagine.”

“You’re right. It was far from that. Thank God.”

“I wouldn’t have expected Mac to be anything but gentle. He’s a nice guy.”

“I know.”

“So? How was the dinner?”

She could feel herself beginning to blush. “It was… nice.”

“Just nice, huh? Come on.” He winked. “Gaige is gonna ask you the same things on Monday, if not sooner, so you might as well practice on me.”

She sighed. “That’s true. All right. It was more than nice. It was more than I had ever imagined it could be. And I’m not even sure what it was, really. A dinner, a night out, or even—” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “—a date; I’m not sure if it falls straightly into one of those categories.”

“Could it not fall into all three?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure how I would feel about that.”

“Well, you liked it, didn’t you? Does it need to be any more complicated than that?”

“I don’t know, Artifex. It just… It confuses me and I don’t know why.”

He was quiet. He leaned back into the seat, crossing his arms over each other. She returned to writing, and although her thoughts were distracted, managed to come up with some coherent paragraphs. Later on she would type them up on her computer. Maybe she would end up using them. Maybe she wouldn’t. At the very least, she had material; more material than she had begun with, anyway, and that, she figured, would be worth the trouble.

“Would you…” He licked his lips. Paused. Began again: “Would you… be opposed to doing that sort of thing again?”

She looked at him, and only had to think for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.” He found the answer satisfying; she found it to be honest.

As Pinkie made her way past and cheerfully called out to them before ducking back into the kitchen, Ink decided to flip the situation around. “What about you? Would you be opposed to going out on for dinner with a certain girl?”

His glare was temporary, and did not mask his fleeting panic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Artifex. Maybe one day you’ll convince the both of us it’s true.”

There was another period of silence, in which Artifex stared at her intensely. She detected the silent question on his lips. She finished her drink. “And it really wasn’t anything, Artifex. Just a friendly outing.”

By Sunday, she still hadn’t convinced herself of that. In truth, it was all she could think about—well, besides writing, of course. After her meeting with Artifex yesterday, she had spent the rest of that Saturday filling out her notebook until she was sure she had a good idea going. The only breaks taken were for homework and to help around the house, which she could have sworn was happening a lot more frequently, but which was also something she was sure not to complain about.

On that Sunday she had finished writing and now was slowly beginning to transcribe her ideas onto her laptop. She made sure she made backups of the documents to avoid another mechanical mishap. The little blinking light in the corner of her laptop that told her it was on and operational was a blessing, but she could not help but view it with some unease ever since that incident.

But her mind was elsewhere. She copied the words she had written onto the flickering screen unconsciously while her mind tossed and turned with all that had happened. When she had finished her transcribing, she wasn’t even aware of it. She stared at the screen blankly for a moment, before turning her head and looking outside. The snow had stopped but it was as white as ever, and she found herself thinking back on that night, on the spitting snow and the boy in the nice tux who had come for her out of nowhere…

How clearly that night came to her. How plainly, how simply. Few nights—few things—were like that.

“Ink?” then her mother called. “Could you help me with something real quick?”

“Sure thing, Mom.”

Ink powered down her laptop and got out of her seat. As she made her way out of her room, she cast another look out the window, and found her thoughts straying once again…

Elsewhere, so were his.

His hands trembled beneath the heavy crate he was moving into the house. It was full of the Christmas decorations and lights his family had been putting up for generations, the plastic ends and tips just barely peeking out of the cardboard lid. His feet crunched on frozen snow before landing on the wooden porch with a soft thud. He grunted. At his grunt, the door swung open, and he entered.

“Golly, that sure looks heavy, Big Mac,” Apple Bloom said to him as he entered, closing the door behind him.

He didn’t provide an “Eeyup.” Didn’t provide much of anything, anyway, beyond the sounds of exertion as he placed the box on the ground.

“Mac? You all right?”

Still nothing. He raised his head a little and saw in his view the kitchen window where from there led a path to the road which would take him to her house. Somehow he had memorized the route easily, without meaning to, without actually consciously wanting to. He wondered how she was.

“Mac?” Apple Bloom asked again. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

He started, then stood. “Er, y-yeah, Apple Bloom,” he said.

“You’re thinking of Ink, aint’cha?” she said, smiling up at him.

He glared at her, then sighed. “A little,” he admitted. He blushed as Apple Bloom squealed, and yet his blush was not as intense as one might have thought. Almost as if he was growing comfortable in its existence.

That night had been on his mind for the entire weekend, truth be told. It did not help that Granny hounded him with questions when she could fire them. Applejack, on the other hand, seemed deadfast on ignoring him. Girl had a grudge against Ink, though Mac had no idea why. Apple Bloom was the only one who was giving him any semblance of peace, though that came with the teasing just as much as it came with the consoling.

In the living room, the radio was playing some old Christmas music. As Mac and Bloom worked to set up the lights, he found himself listening to what was playing there. …

And so he wondered, oddly and uncharacteristically whimsical of him, if together their tracks through the snow had been visible.

They finished setting up the lights a quarter of an hour later. Three songs had played, but after the first one Mac hardly noticed. He attempted to busy himself in the physical work, but really was busy in the mind for the most part. Apple Bloom laughed at him, but only for a short while, before returning to the task at hand—together they finished and stepped back to admire their handiwork.

The windows had been decorated with lights while stockings hung from the fireplace. Banners and holiday-themed photos adorned the walls. They had even set up a little place for cookies and milk to reside, even though none of the Apples believed in Santa Claus anymore. All that was missing was a tree, which Mac would get later on in the week before Christmas finally came.

Apple Bloom went away, then; Mac registered her softly saying goodbye before dashing off. Now he was looking at the family photo and thinking—thinking of nothing at all, he wanted to admit.

“She’s still on yer mind?”

He didn’t turn, knowing already who was standing behind him, and yet his voice carried a surprising edge to it. “Ya got a problem with that?”

“What if I do?”

“Then don’t you bring me into it, y’hear?”

She grumbled incomprehensibly. He would not turn and face her.

He heard her take a step forward and say, “So how was it?”

“Ah told you, it was nice—”

“That’s what you told Granny, but that ain’t what yer face is saying, big guy.”

He whirled around, all the bravado and ire a big brother could muster gathering on his face. “And what’s my face sayin’, then?”

She put a finger against his chest. He noted that her eyes had gone soft, and she was frowning. “Don’t bother lying, Mac. Ah can spot one a mile away. You like her a lot—don’t you?”

He glared at her. It was silent. Then he took his hand and brushed hers away and stepped around and away from her. “We’re just friends, Applejack. Nothin’ more. Now, if you’d excuse me, I’ve got some more work to do.”

He was gone before Applejack had a chance to retort. She shook her head. “Oh, Mac… fer yer sake Ah hope it all ends up all right.”