She was an artist, an entrepreneur of the written craft, exotic, vibrant, stern and stubborn, with all the fury of a devil and all the contemplation of a philosopher.

He was a quiet boy, a scarred boy, a deep boy, with a passion for friendship and love, a face that spoke not just of burdens but also of triumphs.

Together, they were not the best of friends.

But they were close friends nonetheless.

He was standing at their usual spot—the corner of the street—wearing his yellow jacket. One arm was crossed across his body, while the other held a walking stick tightly. Despite the wintery atmosphere, he didn’t seem cold; he attributed this tolerance to his life in the big city of Manehattan, where it was periodically much colder than in southern Canterlot. As such, no hat covered his icy-white hair, and no mask confined his sharp, cerulean eyes.

He saw her coming, dressed in a fluffy, dark-purple down jacket, and he waved. She walked over to him, as was customary. They were both smiling, though her cheeks were turning red from the cold.

“Artifex Frost,” she greeted, holding out a gloved hand.

He took it and shook. “Ink Quill. I see you’ve still got that hairbun and bangs of yours.”

“And you’re still wearing that dopey, yellow jacket.”

He grinned. “Sharp. Have I ever told you that?”

“Only several hundred times, yes.” She felt a shiver run through her, and she fought to stop her teeth from clacking. “Can we go now? Before my limbs freeze off.”

He swiveled on one foot, pointing his cane down the snow-covered path. “Let’s, then.”

In retrospect, she never thought she’d be friends with someone like Artifex Frost. He’d only been in school for three months now, having arrived on the very first day of school (and thus the very first day of September). On the outside, he was impassioned and impersonal, with a certain level of bluntness that competed with her own. He was smart, in his own way, but he seemed a bit aloof, a bit odd, like he wasn’t the kind of person you’d just walk into on the street.

They’d been in the same first block class, and they’d not even talked to each other until a little bit after Thanksgiving. That was because Mr. Solil, the teacher, wanted to switch things up a bit, “pair you up with a stranger so you’d not be so comfortable.” Things had been awkward at first, with neither knowing how to talk, let alone work together.

And yet, they’d surprisingly bonded, over a seemingly random point. Someone had asked for the upteenth time what Artifex’s first name meant, and he, in an annoyed tone, had tersely stated “author.” She knew that, but she hadn’t thought to ask until then if he’d actually written anything before.

He’d hesitated for a moment, before saying, “I write a journal. Personal one.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” she said, and she meant it, because no one else did that, because why would they? There weren’t many writers per se in their grade. “I like to write, too.”

She’d half-muttered, half-whispered, but Artifex had heard her anyway. And he’d oh-so-graciously avoided asking her “What do you write about?” and she was glad he’d not said that, because she’d not have had an idea of how to answer. Instead, he’d asked her why she did.

“Because,” she had said, “it makes me feel complete.” It was meant to be a vague answer, yet she’d hoped—thinking it would be in vain—he’d understand.

And he did. “Because writing brings you solace,” he’d said with a nod. “Because it heals something inside you, a hole, a wound in your heart.”

She’d smiled at that. “You’ve got a way with words, too.”

“Seems like we both do.”

The next step in their bonding process had been the following weekend. Ink, while not a fan of the cold, felt a morning jog in brisk weather would 1) wake her up and 2) give her some manner of inspiration, so one morning she did just that. She was surprised to find Artifex out and about, a cane in his hand, a simple jacket (not even a winter one!) covering his body. She’d called him crazy; he’d corrected her and said “I’m a Manehattanite.” She asked if that wasn’t the same thing, and he’d said “Ask Mr. Solil!”

They’d walked—they could not jog because of his leg—down the sidewalk, into the city of Canterlot, without even realizing where they were going, and she didn’t stop to ask him what he was doing out here until much later. They’d talked, not just about writing, but about life and their lives and friends and of Manehattan (she’d love to visit, and he recommended she go one day) and of all sorts of random and enjoyable topics. They’d shared a mutual liking for this instance and decided to make it a regular event every Saturday since then.

Of course, it didn’t take long for some people from school to see them. A few rumors—innocent ones—spread; they’d been quick to discount them, much to the displeasure of a certain sweater-wearing girl. Besides, she knew Artifex only saw her as a friend. And he was, after all, showing signs of infatuation to a different girl, and while Ink had yet to confront him over it, she’d hoped the best for him all the same.

“Hold up a second there, Ink.”

She suddenly felt his hand stretch out in front of her, stopping her walk and her thinking. She blinked. They were in front of an intersection with piles of snow covering parts of the sidewalk. The light was green for cars and red for pedestrians. She looked at Artifex and noticed he’d a cautious, slightly apprehensive look on his face.

She didn’t know why he seemed so scared about intersections, but she’d heard bits and pieces of conversation from others about it. Something about his sister. She didn’t think to ask him; it was private information, and he’d tell her eventually.

He checked both sides, seeing the light turn red. Then he nodded. “Okay, let’s go,” he said. They crossed.

When they were on the other side, Artifex said, “You’d zoned out there, Ink.”

She offered a light laugh, mostly because it felt socially fitting. “Sorry. I was just thinking about how we first met and became friends.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Then why were you smiling?”

“Ooph, you wound me so, Artifex. Ye know Aye luv you!”

He rolled his eyes. “Nice accent. You should be an actress.”

Around them, the snow continued to fall lightly, and they landed on her face and neck like cold kisses from angels. But because they were still moving, she hardly noticed.

Canterlot was surprisingly busy. Ink only just now noticed how many cars were on the road. The stores were all open, with lines of people piling in and out, trying to get in their last-minute holiday shopping. Someone had taken the liberty to dress the street lights with green-and-red strings of mini bulbs. There were elves and plastic Santa Clauses that ran on clockwork mechanisms inside store windows, and a bunch of children gathered in front of them like moths to a flame. Someone was playing Christmas music over the radio, and it carried on the chilly wind and drifted lazily into Ink’s ear. She hummed a little but nothing more.

“Any plans for Christmas?” Artifex asked her after they’d passed another crowded store.

“I’m probably going to go south,” she said. “Visiting relatives on my mother’s side. What about you?”

He took out his phone and showed her an email. “Treble Mix sent it. We’re having a party at his relatives’ mansion.”

She took his phone and looked closer. “A secret gift exchange? Did you already choose your person?”

She handed the phone back to him. He nodded. “Did you get the gift yet?” she asked.

“Not yet. That’s why we’re here.”

They stood now in front of a general good store. There wasn’t much of a crowd around it; the other shops were apparently more appealing. Inside, Ink saw copper lights in the place of the more modern neon ones. The whole store seemed to have a yellowish tint to it, like old copy paper.

Artifex pushed open the door, and together they entered. It smelled like her attic, cold and dusty, with piles of random books and goodies placed throughout. There was a single cashier there—she was an older lady, with silvery hair that dangled thinly from her scalp, and her eyes were beads of black. Soft, melodic Christmas music was playing through a radio speaker installed in the ceiling.

They went down the aisles, looking for… well, Ink had no idea, but Artifex seemed to have one. Their hands went over books about self-help; they skimmed racks of stuffed animals and a few gift cards. There were beer kegs and beer pitchers and beer memorabilia, and next to these were a bunch of sports goods, like bobbleheads and little statues of famous players. Ink picked up a magnet that read “I ain’t crazy, just from up north.” She showed it to Artifex, and he offered a simple chuckle.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Ink then asked. They were in front of some glass cases; inside she saw model boats and planes.

“Something for Sunset Shimmer,” Artifex said back. “No Clue told me this would be a good place to start.”

“Right, but what, exactly?”

He turned to her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

She punched him, lightly, and he groaned but laughed just as well.

They combed the rest of the store, deftly maneuvering around boxes of unknown items. At some point, the radio station changed, and now it played something that didn’t quite sound like Christmas music, but still felt thematically appropriate for the season. Artifex was humming along to it, even tapping his one good leg on the floor with his cane keeping a steady beat.

After they’d combed over everything else, they found themselves in a somewhat dark corner of the store. There was a plain, cardboard box set on a tray table, and it looked like it hadn’t been moved in ages. Artifex spent a little while shifting through its contents, and Ink saw that inside were a bunch of lined notebooks, like the kinds you’d get in first grade so you could complete a journal assignment.

He suddenly pulled back with a satisfied “Aha!” In his hand was a leather-bound notebook, simply made, with minimal craftsmanship or design to it. Its pages were the color of aged wax, and they were thick and robust—by no means the typical, commercial paper you’d buy at an office store.

Ink raised an eyebrow. “Really? A notebook?”

“I’d explain,” he said, “but that would ruin the surprise. Besides,” he added, after placing the notebook at his side, “shouldn’t we be talking less about me and more about you?”

He went past her before she could respond. Despite his limp, he moved fairly quickly, and was at the register and paying before she’d caught up to him.

“You did say you wanted to talk,” he said without looking at her. The old lady at the register told him the cost, and he handed her a wad of cash. She took it, inputed it in, gave him the change and receipt, and put the notebook in a bag.

“I did,” she admitted. “But you were busy and—”

He waved her off. “Nonsense, Ink. I’m not busy enough ever to avoid listening to a friend in need. And I’d say you’re in dire need as well.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You’ve been biting your lip so much that I think you’ve forgotten that hurts. You’re bleeding a little—here, have a tissue.” He took out a pack and handed her one, and she dabbed at her lips. The tissue came back red.

Artifex thanked the lady, and the two of them made their way out of the store. “You bite your lip when you’re nervous or frustrated,” he explained as they went back onto the street. “It’s a habit.”

“And a bad one,” she muttered. “I should really stop.” She took a breath, feeling the cold, wet air cycle through her.

He stared at her for a moment. Then he nodded. “I know a good place to talk,” he said. “Just follow me.”

Sugarcube Corner was busy, but it wasn’t too busy. After greeting Pinkie Pie and the Cakes, they were able to find themselves a booth rather quickly, and Artifex placed the recently bought notebook down next to him. They decided to order something warm. Artifex chose a muffin, and Ink went with coffee, “the best thing in the whole world.”

“If you don’t mind the bitterness, that is,” Artifex had said when Pinkie had left them.

He leaned forward. “So, tell me: what’s on your mind?”

She fought to conceal an embarrassed blush. “It’s, um, well… it’s about my writing.”

He blinked. “Your writing.”

“Mmhm. You see—”

“Food’s here!” Pinkie suddenly exclaimed, causing Ink to nearly jump out of her seat. Artifex somehow managed to remain impassive. He thanked Pinkie for getting them their orders.

“No problem, Arty! Anything for you and your friend!” She noogied him; she actually noogied him, and she was quick about it, too, so he didn’t have a chance to respond. She was back in the kitchen by the time he thought of a retort.

Ink’s face burned. “Did she just—”

“Get used to it,” he groaned. “Next to Adagio, Pinkie can be an absolute tease.”

“But we’re just friends!”

“Which makes us have, apparently, the bedrock of a blossoming relationship.”

“Is that you talking, or Hazel?”

“Both, at this point.”

The coffee was hot, but Ink didn’t mind. She drank it without first blowing on it. The hot liquid would have burned her throat, but she’d gotten used to drinking far hotter beverages. Artifex, meanwhile, dug into his muffin quickly, because “these muffins are the absolute best, you know.”

She did know, and watching him scarf down a good portion of the muffin was pretty funny. She kept that part to herself, though.

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Now, back to the topic at hand. What’s wrong with your writing?”

She shook her head. “Where do I even start? I came home yesterday, absolutely brimming with ideas, and I couldn’t get a single one of them to work.”

“To work?”

“You know, I couldn’t write them the way they sounded in my head. Or, like, I tried to write them, but they didn’t sound right.”

His brow furrowed. “What exactly are you writing?”

She took a sip of her coffee before answering. “A novel.”

“What’s it about?”

“Just… people.”

“People?”

“People.”

“People.” He didn’t believe her, or maybe he knew there was more to it than that. She sighed, knowing she was probably about to be completely embarrassed.

“Okay, promise not to laugh?”

“Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye.”

“You better keep that promise, Artifex!” Pinkie shouted from the kitchen.

Ink sighed. “Okay. It’s… it’s about romance.”

She was met with a surprising amount of silence. Artifex’s brow remained furrowed. His hand lay neutrally against the table, right next to the muffin. She watched him carefully, trying to gauge his response.

He opened his mouth, and she instinctively cringed, anticipating the oncoming onslaught of questions and teasing remarks.

“Go on.”

Now she was speechless. She’d expected at least a chuckle, even from him, and she’d gotten nothing. He looked at her expectantly, waiting. She cleared her throat.

“Th-that is… it’s a romance novel.”

“So I gathered.”

“... you’re really not surprised by this?”

“Oh, no, I’m really surprised. Just not so surprised that I’m going to bother and pester you for all eternity.”

He held his hand out, palm up. “Besides, I can see this means a lot to you. No point in ribbing you over it.”

She was quiet. A smile crept up on her lips, and though it was small, it was strong and jubilant. “Thanks, Artifex.”

She explained everything to him. So many ideas had entered her head, and so little—possibly none at this point—ever left. She felt like she was in a creative rut, “like my ideas won’t leave the hanger.” The only pauses and interruptions came from each consuming their order before them.

Through each explanation, Artifex listened carefully. Sometimes he stopped her to ask for confirmation over something, but other than that, he kept mostly silent. Judging by his tight lips and deep frown, he was mulling over the matter as best he could. Ink ranted and vented and groaned and cursed; she waved her arms, slammed her hand down, sometimes twice, shook her head with a ferocious energy.

Then she stopped. She was panting, so caught up in the moment, in her tirade, that she hadn’t noticed she’d exhausted herself. Pinkie came back, smiling as brightly as ever. “Well, don’t you two look cute together!”

“Sorry, Pinkie,” Artifex said brusquely. “Not now.”

She paused, visibly confused. She turned to him. “Oooh. Serious moment?”

“Serious moment.”

“Gotcha. I’ll come back later. How does that sound?”

“That’s fine,” Ink said. Pinkie left.

“You’re in some creative trouble,” Artifex said.

“That’s one way of putting it. I’ve got a seriously bad case of writer’s block, Artifex; and I have no idea how to get past it.”

His frown lessened, and his brow no longer creased, but he maintained a distinct, piercing expression. “But why come to me?”

“Because you’re also a writer. I figured you’d understand more than anyone else.”

He shook his head. She felt a bit of disappointment creep into her heart. “It’s true, I like to write. But you and I… we write different things. We are different writers.”

“Yes, but—”

“What exactly do you need help on?” he interrupted. “What part of the writing requires assistance? You’re a good writer, Ink, through and through. I’ve seen that in class many times before. So tell me,” he said, leaning forward, “what’s the hardest part for you, then? The idea? The execution? The characters? What is it?”

She hesitated. “I guess… all of it.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Maybe it isn’t all of it.”

“Well, if I can’t even get a sentence down, then it probably is mostly, if not all of it.” She ran her hands through her hair bun. “I just… Artifex, it’s hard to explain, you know?”

“I know. It’s hard to make it seem right. But I can’t help unless I know what it is you need help with. I need context, Ink.”

She tapped her finger against the table. She looked out the window, and saw all the people walking or driving past.

“I’m trying to make it a good relationship,” she said softly. “By that, I mean having the characters act like real people.”

“Instead of characters of caricatures, they’d be as real as you and I.”

“Exactly. So I want them to act, talk, interact, move, whatever like actual people. But whenever I start writing them, it sounds stiff and sloppy. Everything sounds mechanical, from the narration, to the dialogue, to the exposition, everything.” She clenched her hands and brought them up to her temples, rubbing them. “Ugh. Everything just sounds so bad to me that I can’t get started!”

He said, “In other words, it’s not as though you don’t know where to start; it’s more along the lines of you don’t know how to start. Is that right?”

“Yes! Yes, yes that is right. That is absolutely, 100% right!”

Then she paused. Her shoulders sunk, and she slinked back into her seat, hunching over. “Wait. That’s… not good, is it?”

Artifex shook his head. “I don’t think it’s bad, per se, but it’s not good, either. How can you start writing, after all, if you don’t know how you put the first word down?”

“First sentence.”

“First sentence, same difference.”

“So you see that I’m very, very—and I mean very very—frustrated.”

“Clearly.”

Another period of silence followed. Ink grew uncomfortable waiting. Artifex was looking away, into the street, as if he thought an answer would arise there. People came and went. Some went into Sugarcube Corner while others left it. Breakfast hour began to fade.

One of the people who came in Ink did not immediately recognize. He was tall and peach-skinned, and he walked cordially up to Pinkie and made an order.

Still Artifex did not say anything. She saw his brow return to its furrowed state. “Artifex?” she called. “You still there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I’m…” He sighed through his nose. “I’m trying to think of some manner of suggestion. But I guess I can’t.”

“You… can’t?”

“I can’t.”

“You—”

Bam!

Her fist came down onto the table, making Artifex actually jump. “Damn it, Artifex! What do you mean you can’t?!”

“Hey, whoa, whoa! Ink, calm yourself!”

“Calm myself?! You led me on a wild word chase and all you’ve got to say is that you can’t help me?!”

“I didn’t say that, because I wasn’t finished yet!”

“You—”

Ink’s voice faltered the moment she saw the look in Artifex’s eyes. His were a piercing cerulean, so sharp it could seemingly cut stone with but a glare. She felt it seize her voice and silence it, telling her to stop, to listen. So she did.

The boy opposite of her took a deep breath. “Ink. I know that you’re frustrated.”

“That’s an understatement.” She would have mumbled more, but his glare cut her off.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. So. You don’t have an outline?”

“Nope.”

“What do you have?”

“A vague idea of a premise? Artifex, where are you taking me—”

“Just bear with me. What’s the premise?”

“Girl and guy fall in love.”

“Simple enough. What about characters; do you have them?”

“Yes? I mean, kind of. I don’t have names… or, actually—” She trailed, frowning. She tried to remember anything about her characters—and she came up blank. “No… I don’t actually have much in terms of character. Just the fact that they’re a girl and a guy.”

“Do you know how they’ll fall in love? Do you know what the conflict will be? The drama, the tension?”

“No,” she replied guiltily.

Artifex hummed thoughtfully, bringing a finger to his chin. “Well,” he said, “maybe you could start there.”

He took a moment to sort through his words. Ink took a sip of her coffee. She did not once take her gaze off of him.

“From what I’ve read,” Artifex said, “the best characters are the realistic ones. You know that already. But maybe just because you know that, doesn’t mean you understand that. Maybe you just have to… get people more.”

“Do you want me to go out and watch people and take notes?”

“What? No! That’s a total invasion of privacy!”

“Well, what else do you want me to do?! That’s the only way you can study people nowadays! I mean, besides pulling a Hazel and stalking them from afar… Oh, geez, you don’t think she’s here right now, do you?”

“Ink, focus—”

“I am focused!” Another hand came down, nearly flipping her cup of coffee in the process. Artifex made a distinct point of scooching a little ways back.

This time, Ink was the one who took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m just—”

“Frustrated,” Artifex completed with a nod. “And how.”

“I don’t know what to do… you don’t know what to do… I don’t know if anything can be done!”

“Hey, don’t be like that.” He stretched out and covered her hand with his. He squeezed it a little. “Listen. Writer’s block is never permanent. It might take some time, but it’ll wear off.”

“But why can’t it wear off now?!” she wailed. “Why does writing have to be so hard when I want to do it? Doesn’t it understand that that just makes me not want to do it?”

“Maybe it just has a sick sense of humor.”

“That would explain why so many famous writers go mad…”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

They allowed a silence to interrupt, but it was not a silence that was wholeheartedly welcome. Ink slowly grew aware just how quiet it was in the bakery. There weren’t that many people left.

“Pardon me.”

A deep, baritone voice came from her side. She looked up, and saw the same, peach-skinned young man from before standing there. Dressed in a red jacket—those shoulders were a leather brown with green apples emblazoned on them—and jeans, he resembled—she couldn’t help but make the assumption—a farmer of some sort.

“Ah couldn’t help but hear the two of ya arguin’. Y’all were pretty loud. Is there a problem?”

Artifex then glanced up. He offered the boy a courteous nod. “Oh. Hey, there, Big Mac.”

“Howdy, Artifex.”

“Got another order?”

“Eeyup,” Big Mac said. “Granny needs some of the best desserts Sugarcube Corner can make. She’s thinkin’ of combin’ them with some of our signature apple pies. It’s fer the whole holiday season.”

“Ah, I getcha. Must be pretty busy.”

“Eeyup.”

“You’re quite talkative today. Normally you’re just resigned to one word.”

Big Mac rubbed the back of his grain-covered head. “Normally Ah’m not much of a talker, but seein’ as how you and the Miss were arguing here…”

“Oh, no, we’re not in a relationship,” Artifex quickly insisted. “We’re just friends.”

“That so? Then what were you arguing over?”

“Ah, well, Ink here… she can get a bit excited over…” His voice trailed. “Over… um, Ink?”

Ink, meanwhile, didn’t realize that she was staring at Big Mac. She took in his muscular form, his bright, green eyes, and she played in her head his deep, deep voice. Something began to fall into place.

She suddenly stood. “Um, excuse me. Who exactly are you?”

He turned to her. “Macintosh Apple, miss Ink.”

“We call him Big Mac for short,” said Artifex.

“Uh huh.” She took a breath. “Well, Artifex and I… we were just discussing a problem I’m having.”

“What kind of problem, miss Ink?”

“Just Ink is fine. You see, I’m trying to… write something. A novel.” The words came quickly now; she didn’t care that she was talking to a complete stranger, just that she was talking to someone else, hoping for a different perspective. “And I don’t know how to start.”

Big Mac nodded. “Mm. Well, that does seem to be a problem, Ink.”

“It is, it really is! And Artifex here—” She paused, turned to him, and shrugged. “Thank you for trying, Artifex, but I just don’t know if your suggestion is gonna work!”

“I tried, at least.”

“Tried what?” Mac asked.

“I thought it would be a good idea to try and ‘learn’ people again. That is, try to more… engross herself with how people act. You know, get a live example and all.”

Big Mac probably did not know, and Ink could not blame him; it was a strange suggestion. Artifex saw their bewildered expressions; he winced. “All right, it was a bit farfetched.”

“Eenope.”

They both turned to him. “No? It isn’t?” Artifex asked.

Big Mac shook his head. “Well, it depends on the kind of novel, right?”

“Right,” said Ink. “Um, it’s a romance novel.”

“Well, Ah’d imagine you can learn a lot about writing people by, as Artifex said, ‘learning’ them. But if you want the romance side of things, then you’d want to learn romance.”

“Okay? So?”

“So—” At this, Big Mac paused to crack his back; “—why not ask some couples for advice?”

Ink’s brain momentarily stopped. “Ask… couples?”

“Hmm.” Artifex nodded slowly. “Yeah, that could work. I mean, we already know several, don’t we? You could build a fantasy relationship off of what they have to say. If you base it on real-world couples and romance, it’d certainly be realistic.”

Ink began to shake. “That’s… that’s…”

“It’s just a thought,” Big Mac said with a shrug. “An’ it’s yer novel, so you do it how you want it—”

“That’s perfect!”

She grabbed Big Mac’s shoulders and fiercely shook him. “Oh my God, that is the best idea ever! Big Mac, you are a freakin’ genius! Aah!”

“Ink!” Artifex stood. “Calm down, girl! You’re gonna make him dizzy!”

“There’s no time to be calm! I gotta get onto this pronto!” But she did let go, and Big Mac did not look worse for wear, only confused. “God, you are a lifesaver, Big Mac, and I just met you!”

She dug around her purse and took out some dollars, and she thrust them into Artifex’s hands. “Here! This should cover the cost. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go before this idea leaves me behind!”

“Ink, wait—”

It was too late; she was gone in an indigo puff of smoke.

Artifex sighed. “Yeah, I guess I should have seen that coming.”

Big Mac raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s not your girlfriend?”

“Of course I’m sure, Big Mac.” He paused. “Thank you, though, seriously. Ink needed something like that.”

Pinkie came back around with an assortment of goodies, and she handed them over to Mac. “Aw!” she exclaimed to Artifex. “Is she gone?”

“Yeah. Here.” He gave her the money. “Don’t worry, Pinkie. You’ll definitely see her in school. And thanks to our big, tall friend here,” he added, “she’ll probably be looking for you, too.”

“Ooh! Sounds exciting!”

She went back to the register to help another customer. Artifex turned back to Big Mac. “Thanks again. Never expected you’d have any idea how to write romance.”

The older boy blushed. “Um, well…”

Artifex raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, no need to tell me.” His eyes twinkled. “I’m just glad you helped my friend out.”

“Eeyup. Tell her I wish her good luck.”

“I will. Take care, Big Mac.”