"I can't believe you're kicking me out… again. This is the second time."

"Ahh! I'm sorry about that, but I had to! Let me live it down," Maka wails, spinning around to fight off an inexplicable blush. Busying herself by pushing and pulling on the doorknob to test if the door is locked properly can only buy her so much time. Actually, she's not sure if she'll ever be ready to turn around and meet Soul's gaze – she hasn't quite yet put a name to the color of his eyes, but she knows if she stares too long it'll deepen her faraway fondness toward him, and she's not sure what any of it means.

Maybe it's already too late. In the back of her head, Maka already wishes the quiet evenings she and Soul spend together at the bakery would go on forever, and maybe even longer if they haven't opened up to each other by then. They're still caught in the purgatory between strangers and friends, even if they're breaking that ice by sharing small tidbits of themselves through sporadic conversation.

Still, Maka can't help but want to dive in headfirst to see what makes him tick. Ambition is both her flaw and strength that way.

She takes a breath and turns around, confident that the redness on her cheeks can be chalked up to the freezing wind's assault. Soul is right there like she imagined, patiently waiting for her. Although it doesn't catch her unawares, it feels like deja vu being here with him, getting ready to go their separate ways but drawing out their goodbye because neither of them wants to leave.

"S'kinda cold." When he talks, mists come out from his mouth and disappear in seconds, like her thoughts. "You definitely need something warmer than that scarf."

She puts her mitten covered hands over her ears distractedly. "Well, since I lost my hat, this is all I have." There's a lump in her throat suddenly, and she doesn't like the fact that there's a shadow cloaking his eyes when he puts on his newsboy cap. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah… tomorrow," he says, looking disappointed. Maka can't help but think it's because of her, but she's cold and already moving away. She could cry about her lost hat, if she let herself, but she doesn't want Soul to see that.

X

Soul's quiet presence makes the days blur together like some kind of psychedelic daydream, but Maka can't savor the feeling of befriending him when it feels like she already knows him from somewhere. What bothers her most is that the answer lies right there, just beneath the surface, barely out of her reach. There are things about Soul she shouldn't know, like his fear of social settings and the aversion he has for his dimple, but the walls built around him are new for some reason.

They weren't there before.

But that shouldn't hurt her feelings - they're getting to know each other now for the first time. Even if it feels like in another life he opened up to her easily, she's here with him in this life, and nothing's easy in this life. Maka just doesn't like the feeling of being held at a distance; it makes her think she's losing something before it's even hers. That would be a new heartbreak she hasn't encountered yet.

The art of losing is bittersweet like that.

What especially doesn't sit well with Maka is Soul's sudden reluctance to be around Blair when he seemed to like her at first. Sure, Blair left four strawberry-red scratches alongside his face, but they had healed quickly, and Blair deserves more chances to be accepted and loved outside of first impressions. Maka can't help but take it personally. After all, she loves the little kitten with the penchant for mischief more than anything, and thinks of Blair as an extension of herself.

She wonders if he's using Blair as an excuse not to get too close. It's not fair. All Maka wants is to remember where she's seen him before and to be his friend, because they would fit together so well if only they would let it happen. She's not surprised – it took them this long to talk to each other, months of staring before the night he stayed too long in the bakery. It's like they're hiding behind smokescreens in a maze of mirrors and she can't tell which way they're going sometimes.

"Is that cat here?" Soul takes to asking when he arrives at the bakery, portfolio tucked between his arm and side.

Today, because upsetting assumptions have been running through her mind, Maka has had enough. Thinking about how things change for no reason makes her face hot with emotion. "Her name is Blair, and she's always where I am. I already told you. I'm not allowed to have pets so I bring her everywhere I go."

The trouble with Soul is his glass face. She can see the machinery inside him work and stutter as he thinks. It helps that he has a nice face to look at, but he wears worry and regret too well. "Sorry…"

Maka gives him an honest look, letting go of her misplaced anger. She's never been one to hide her feelings well (but dear God does she try), and the frown she wears is genuine. "Why don't you like Blair? Are you afraid of her?"

He snorts. "She's not even bigger than my shoe. Of course I'm not afraid! She's just… mean."

The word is chosen clumsily and half-heartedly but it still gets to Maka, who pouts. "She's a baby! And she doesn't know her own strength. I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt you - are you even listening? Why are you laughing?"

Soul tries to stop grinning even though Maka inwardly wishes he wouldn't. It's nice. "I don't think I've ever seen you mad before. Well, except for that one time you kicked me out-"

If it weren't considered unprofessional, she would leap over the counter and shake him by the shoulders until his smirk fell off. She's so embarrassed, something he seems to take pleasure in - oh, he reminds her of Blake. It's frustrating and reassuring all at once. "You're about to see me mad more often if you don't stop hating Blair. And I'm sorry about kicking you out!"

The way his eyes squint when he grins really wide is mesmerizing, especially with their strange color.

Recently, it's Maka who can't stop staring. Coaxing him to come out of his shell is quickly becoming one of her favorite pastimes because it's like watching snow melt when the sun is too bright. But she won't let herself get sentimental about that right now. With a humph, she goes back to reading her book and pretends not to watch him from the corner of her eye.

That's why she sees his horror when one customer makes a beeline to talk to him on her way out of the shop hours later.

"I heard your playing the other night at the church. It was beautiful," a woman wearing an outlandish hat with a large fake flower on top says to him, holding a loaf of bread like a baby.

"Thank you." Polite but curt, he slouches over, covering his work with his forearm. It reminds Maka of the way paranoid, wary children protect themselves against being copied during tests at school.

"Marvelous, simply marvelous, as always!" the woman praises, starting a fanatical rant about how much she's looking forward to his recital, asking if his brother will be visiting anytime soon. "A reunion must be in the works," she insists, clearly unreceptive to Soul's discomfort.

"My brother hasn't mentioned visiting in his letters," is his reply, ducking his head down, focus re-aimed on writing music. "And he doesn't play anymore."

The woman isn't listening. "Yes, a Wes and Soul Evans brothers collaboration is needed in this world," she muses. Minutes later she's out the door, finally having picked up from his one worded answers that ebbed into grunts that he didn't want to be bothered. Soul slumps over his work, brow furrowed, holding his fountain pen too tightly, occasionally sipping from his mug.

From Maka's place behind the counter, she can feel his mood sour. An opportunity to sashay over presents itself when she notices he hasn't reached for his coffee in a while. "Want a refill? Looks like you might need it, you've been working so hard."

"I guess," he mumbles, not looking at her. He's shutting down right in front of her and it wouldn't be right to be angry with him, but how can she not be when he won't take the hand she holds out to keep him from drowning?

"I didn't know you were a musician!" But it fits somehow. She knew without knowing. And not just because she's seen him scribbling musical notes in the past. "Do you only write music for the piano, or is it for whole orchestras?"

Soul looks at her with wide eyes. "How did you know I play piano? I don't think I've ever mentioned it…."

Maka touches her forehead. "It… made sense?"

X

She learns that Soul Evans loves sweets above anything else, doesn't have a regular sleeping schedule, is taking a break from a piano tour to spend time with his parents, and is inherently lonely. The latter especially doesn't come as a surprise - most precious things wander aimlessly, lost.

That could be why Maka can't help but feel connected to him.

He's full of life in the way that goes unnoticed but is very much needed, like breathing, or moonlight during dark nights. The silent type who thinks too much and observes more than he should, Soul reads people like he reads music scores, to the point he can predict what's going to happen. All things have flows, he tells Maka when she asks why he likes to compose, why he likes to travel.

For some reason, he knows Maka isn't good with music, that she has no rhythm. How he's so sure of that assumption just from watching her tap her fingers on the counter when boredom strikes, she doesn't know. He's odd that way, knowing things without her telling him.

Soul has a habit of covering his grins with his hand, and today is not the day he breaks it. "Stop tapping your fingers, Maka. It sounds like you're trying to choke a woodpecker."

Bantering has quickly become one of their favorite methods of communication. She could laugh at his quip, but that would be admitting he has some kind of pull on her. Instead, she pretends to seethe.

"I - that was unnecessary and rude," she cries. "Take it back!"

"I would never tell a lie, Maka. So I'm not taking it back."

He's as infuriating as he is wonderful.

Days go by, and when she thinks she has him figured out, she's quick to lecture him about eating a balanced diet the first time he orders four muffins instead of his usual two. Regret hits her when he replies that he meant to share with her, his voice soft with hesitance. Then, a week later when she tries to make up for it by baking a miniature cake for him, Blair escapes from the back while Maka heads inside to pick up extra flour and chases him around the bakery. Nothing Maka does for him seems to end right, and it's both hilarious and aggravating.

"Listen here, you have no right to make fun of me when I'm the one who prepares your food. I tried, okay?" She folds her arms across her chest for the added effect and taps her foot.

Soul isn't fazed. He laughs it off, making himself more comfortable at the table.

"I could bring out Blair," she singsongs.

"You wouldn't."

Life goes on - she works, reads, and spoils Blair, but it's inexplicably more interesting with Soul in it. There are things about Maka that he shouldn't know - for example, that she's worn pigtails since she was a little girl. He says they're childish and misleading because it makes her look innocent when in reality she can throw around sour looks like knives. What he doesn't know is that pigtails are an easy way to manage her hair because she knows five braiding styles, so no she won't stop wearing them, thank you very much.

But his reaction towards her ring is jarring.

A slow Sunday afternoon finds Maka absentmindedly playing with the ring attached to her necklace. She rarely takes it out when she's not at the home because of her fear of losing it, but she figures she can let her guard down while the bakery is empty and her mind is full of thoughts about Soul. It's not surprising that she thinks about him when she has no business doing so - he's always around, whether it's in person or not, but recently his visits are shorter and he seems distracted, far away.

That bothers Maka, too - distantly, of course, because she's putting up a good battle against her instinct to pry. He's a private person, reluctant to share and open up, but Maka thinks they can grow alongside one another if they let it happen.

Usually he's here by this time and she's beginning to wonder if he was a figment of her imagination when he strolls in.

She can't help but light up at the sight of him. "Oh, hi! I wasn't sure if you were going to come today - how was your morning?"

It's not that Soul doesn't hear her, it's that he catches sight of her necklace, of the ring. "Is that the wedding ring? You still got to keep it, after all?"

She's already stuffed it back underneath her shirt before he can take a step toward her. "Yeah…" The connection between her mouth and brain is jumbled, and she can't process thoughts correctly - why would she not have it? "What do you mean, Soul?"

At his usual table, he puts his chin in his palm and squints at her. "I don't know."

He doesn't offer any other explanation. Maka guesses there's nothing further for him to say anyway - she's never not had the ring. Explaining that would mean she would have to open up like the sky during a thunderstorm, and she's not quite ready for that yet.

x

"Why are you always reading?"

Because she likes the escape. Because this is the first letter she's received from Blake since he left and she's read it fifteen times already, and she's not ready to stop. Because before Blake's letters, she read nothing but fairy tales where all lost things are found. That's all she wants most in life, so reading about it helps her cope.

And most of all, she reads because there's no one else to read to her. Her papa used to, Maka thinks, and she feels a little closer to him when she finishes a book.

But she doesn't say all that. She just stares at Soul, wondering why he looks fascinated.

He interprets her gaze differently. "Not that there's anything wrong with that! I wouldn't want you getting fired, you know, because you're reading on the job."

There's that far away fondness again, simmering deep inside her.

X

What seals her trust in Soul is the day everyone in town seemingly ends up at the bakery. It's unreasonably busy the day before a blizzard is forecasted to blanket the city in three feet of snow. Customers want their goods and they want them right now because the world's ending. The bakery isn't equipped for many sit-in customers - not that any of them will hear it. When the bell above the door chimes, Maka turns to watch Soul strolling in and his mouth dropping when he sees his usual chair occupied by an older gentlemen reading the paper.

"I'm drowning," she cries to Soul softly as she passes by, holding two mugs of coffee in each hand. A line of disgruntled customers, dirty dishes, and a messy counter has Maka severely overwhelmed. She imagines Auntie facepalming, lamenting that she now has to help Maka land another job until she's of age and out on her own.

Soul stands there for a second while Maka takes more orders and apologizes to a woman because they're fresh out of almond flour. It's terribly chaotic, so there's no time to chide Soul for trespassing into the backroom. When he re-emerges without his burgundy coat on (he must have a lot of coats, and Maka wants all of them – not because she's cold, though) but with an apron tied around his waist, her mouth drops.

"You're not thinking of working, Soul."

"I am, actually," he drawls. This confidence is rare for Soul. The closer Maka looks, however, the more she's convinced this change in attitude isn't self-assurance at all. It's for her. He's rolling up his sleeves before she can protest again. She wonders briefly if he does the same before performing, if he loosens the top button of his shirt as a ritual.

Worries about this being a violation of the shop owner's trust pushed aside, she then replaces it with a hesitant trust in Soul's ability of bussing the tables. It doesn't require any skill outside of a basic sense of cleanliness, but at the same time, she's not sure he's ever had a lift a finger in his life. After all, the rich have entire armies staffed with maids and servants to wait on their every need.

She's stereotyping, she knows – she's bad, bad, bad.

By the end of the shift, however, the worst thing that happens is a mug breaks, and that's her fault. Soul had looked up to find her staring, flashed a genuine smile, and she had dropped the damned thing like it was burning her hands. Cleaning it and the fuzzies in her belly is an easy task, thank goodness, and no one got hurt.

"You're clumsy," Soul says when she's done counting the day's earnings, leaning against the counter, smirking lazily.

Maka wants to swat him away. "Shh, before I fire you."

"I'm not even getting paid. I should, though – oh, speaking of." He sticks his hand in his pocket and slaps down a few bills and change in front of her. "These are the tips I got. Thought you could use them."

"I couldn't! Those are yours, you worked for them!"

Soul shrugs. "I don't work here."

Part of Maka wants to be angry. Is he so well off that he's willing to give money to her without batting an eye? She's also touched that he thought of jumping in without being asked, and that's what she decides to trust - his earnest help. The best part of it all is that they leave the store together, a hard work's day done and Maka feeling a little bit closer to him. Soul has nothing to complain about because he's the one pushing her out for a change, bellyaching that she works too much.

"But I wanted to clean the counter again," she protests, trying to dodge him.

His hands are gentle on her shoulders, turning her around and easing her out onto the snowy sidewalk. "Nope, I've already seen you wipe it down four times. And good God, please tell me you have a hat today. It's colder than the artic out here."

Maka shuts the door, taking her time to turn the knob and triple check that it's locked so she doesn't succumb to the shiver that's crawling down her spine. Throwing her scarf around her head and wearing it as a headwrap wouldn't be enough to shield her from the freezing blasts, and Soul wouldn't believe her even if she tried to say otherwise.

She rubs her hands together, turning to meet his gaze. Sometimes she feels like the color of his eyes change with his emotions, and that's why she hasn't been able to clearly pinpoint what shade they are. "Well, since I lost my hat, this scarf is all I have."

His brows knit together as he frowns and reaches to pull off his bomber hat, holding it out to her with a thoughtful look. Logically, there is no reason for Soul to offer it to her. Self-consciousness about his hair color has steered him toward collecting hats, but apparently, going without it is tolerable if it means she's warm. His kindness hurts. Maka could cry, if she let herself. The hat is lined with fur, probably real fur, and it's the most personal thing anyone's ever given up for her.

"Okay, but only if you walk me home so I can give it back," she says.

When he shakes his head, his hair glows in the moonlight. It reminds Maka of clouds moving across a dark sky. "I'll walk with you anyway, and you can keep it. Deal?"

"Deal." She trembles when she puts it on, reveling in its softness. "I hate losing things, so I promise never to lose this. Thank you so much, Soul."

"Don't mention it." He digs his hands further into his pockets, pursing his lips. "What else have you lost?"

Soul listens to her like her voice is a song while she leads the way. She's not sure how to explain that the temporariness of things breaks her heart - losing her hat, Blake, her memories, her parents. This isn't how she imagined her first time telling Soul about the art of losing, the two of them walking through slow snowfall, surrounded by the still night's darkness. Maka finds that no words fit her thoughts, so she tiptoes around the subject for twenty minutes until she drifts off into silence.

It's not until they're at the crosswalk where he returned her scarf that Soul speaks up. "Yeah, I think I get it. Music is temporary like that, too," he says, kicking at the snow piled in front of him. "It only exists for the second you play or listen to it. And then you have to play it again or write a new song."

Everything is temporary in some way. The more Soul talks, the less Maka feels safe. Even books are fleeting - the stories in them don't go on forever, but they bring her happiness, and that's nothing to regret. At least that's how Soul puts it, shrugging.

"I didn't know you were so deep," she teases while anxiety bubbles in her stomach. "I guess that's why you're always sulking."

"I don't sulk, that's just how my face looks."

That's not true - she's seen him light up with pride in the bakery when he has breakthrough on his music - but she lets him win that minor disagreement. She has too much to think about and not enough space in her mind to sort everything out. He's right about the beauty of impermanence; he seems to understand how love can be fleeting, but he also has to understand that she can't bear to lose anything else.

She wishes she could hold on to her ring right now to make sure it's still there, that it's hanging around her neck, tucked safely inside her shirt.

When it's time, Maka points uphill to the three story high house in need of repairs, the one that looks forgotten and like it's being held up against all odds. The crooked sign hanging on the gate says it all: Shibusen City's Orphan Home. "I live over there. My room is in the attic."

There is neither pity nor judgment in Soul's eyes when he looks at her after taking in the scene, just honor at being shown a little bit of her life. "Yeah, and… and I guess that's why you aren't allowed to have a pet."

Maka grins. Who would have known she'd find someone who understood her at a job Auntie hand-picked for her? "Right. So Blair's going to stay with me all the time until I move out. Then she can stay in bed all day until I come home - wherever that may be."

At the sound of her name, the kitten pops her head out of Maka's oversized breast pocket and purrs at Soul, who cringes at the sight of her but marvels, "What a lucky cat. She'll never need anything else."

X

Libraries are the holiest of places. When the snow finally (temporarily) melts, a day's travel on a horse-drawn carriage, miles of walking, and braving gusts of snowflake filled winds is worth the trouble and more because the armchairs by the fireplace are the softest, most expensive things she's ever sat on. Every detail about the ordeal is a little piece of heaven, a treat to herself.

So when that serenity is interrupted by a rambunctious patron with an affinity for stomping around and slamming books onto the shelves, she's absolutely livid.

"Let's go, Blair," Maka whispers, wrapping her up in a scarf and gently putting her in the inside her coat, right in the breast pocket. "We're going to put a stop to this ridiculousness."

Following the sounds of impatient grunts and cabinets being pulled open violently isn't hard. When she rounds the corner, the first thing she sees is loose-leaf newspaper cuttings strewn over the floor and a figure with his back to her, bundled up in a heavy coat and cap.

She huffs, loud and clear. "Excuse me? May I have a word?"

Then Maka recognizes his eyes – they're strange, and when she sees the white tufts sticking out from under the cap, she wishes she could cup his face and ask him if he ever smiles with his teeth showing.

"Oh," she breathes, resentment dissipating. "It's you, Soul! What are you doing here?"

He gulps, hands flying into his slack pockets. "Maka! I could say the same to you… I've never seen you here before."

"Why are you throwing stuff around like a monkey?" she asks, taking a step forward. The neat freak in her can't stand the newspapers coating the floor. She stoops down and starts gathering them, trying to keep the pages in numerical order. "Hmm... these are about the revolution ten years ago. I didn't know you were interested in government!"

"I'm not," he says, his voice rough, snatching the newspapers out of her arms. Blair hisses, the sound mimicking the feeling rippling through Maka – hurt, rage, and confusion. In that second, all of his gentleness seems to have sharpened into something mean and closed off, and it's worse than being cold enough to freeze.

"Well, just keep it down," she says too harshly, restraining Blair so she doesn't jump out and claw Soul's face again, even if he deserves it.

He exhales, running his fingers underneath his cap until it falls off, his hair tousled and sticking out every which way. "Sorry. I'm just stressed – I came here to work on my music, but then I wandered over here and couldn't find something... I didn't mean to yell."

"I don't like being talked to like that, so don't do it again," she says, giving him a stern look, then smiles and takes his hand when he nods. "Don't be stressed. Come sit with Blair and me, we'll keep you company while you write!"

"...Uh, okay."

He looks down at their linked hands and seemingly forgets all about the newspapers once Maka helps him put them away, content to have company. Maka secretly hopes the lift in his mood is because of her. Sitting by the fire feels a little like home, with Blair napping in her lap and Soul sitting across from her, both looking up and smiling occasionally to each other. No one bothers them - not customers, not fans of his music.

After all, Soul Evans doesn't like attention - unless it's from Maka. She distantly knew this from the instances she had filled the down time at the bakery by reading a book. Every time she had opened the cover it was like he suddenly didn't want to concentrate on composing. He'd stare at her openly until she made several trips to serve him pastries and finally stayed to talk. Today is one of those times where he throws his hands above his head and outright stares at her until she can't ignore him anymore.

"Yes, Soul?" she asks, not looking up, keeping her laugh to herself.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading, obviously."

He puts his music aside and strolls over, splaying his fingers in front of the pages of her book. "I know, but - what are you reading?"

She bites down a smile and tries to swat his hand away. "Well, nothing right now, because your hairy knuckles are in the way."

"Blair's hairy, but you like her." His pout is adorable, but Maka would rather throw her book across the room than admit it.

"No one said I liked her better than you, Soul. Or my book for that matter."

He sticks his hands in his pockets and looks down. "I'm not jealous or anything, just bored. I'm so sick of being stuck on this song I'm writing... So, what're you reading?"

She takes the bait. "It's a collection of fairytales. I've read it about a million times, but I'm running out of things to read."

"Pfft - yeah, I noticed that you're always reading." Soul looks up at the ceiling and back at her a few times before settling his gaze on her. "Well, if you wanted… my family has a big reading room. You could come see it and borrow some books. Say, tomorrow?"

Maka notices how carefully he chooses his words. See it, not him. Borrow books, not spend time together outside of work. Friends shouldn't have to walk on eggshells around one another, shouldn't live in fear of rejection. She decides to make that very clear - it's only the right thing to do, though it feels like they've lived through this moment before.

"Want to be friends?" she asks, hand outstretched.

He hesitates, thick lashes cast a shadow beneath his eyes as he stares, contemplating. For a moment, Maka fears he'll snub her hand, deeming her too many tiers below his social circle to associate with. Wealthy bachelors don't mingle with stubborn, profoundly lost girls who don't have last names or pasts.

A distant worry softens his face. "I thought we already were friends?"

She smiles, hoping it's reassuring. "Now it's official."

One of the beautiful things about Soul is how he brightens up like he's never frowned in his life as he takes her hand; his is familiar, and warm. "Alright. I can't promise not to make you mad sometimes, though. It won't be perfect. But I'm right here."

Maka decides she could hug him forever, she really could - if she would let herself.

X

The Evans family mansion sits on the edge of town, on a secluded piece of well-maintained land. From afar it shines magnificently, and the closer the carriage brings them, the more its grandeur semi-triggers something that's been dormant in Maka's head. The orphanage is the only thing she's known, so the nostalgia that hits her at entering the fine house and seeing its ornate walls is clearly misplaced, though shaking off the feeling is nearly impossible. Even something about Soul waving away the servants who rush forward to help him shrug off his coat feels eerie.

The memory is right on the edge of the shadows, on the tip of her tongue.

She hates when things get stuck in the gap between real and not real.

Soul offers to hang her coat, but Maka shakes her head politely and asks to keep it on. She's cold, always cold. What she doesn't reveal is she feels partly out of place, that she doesn't belong among imported furniture and expensive vases. His clothes aren't worn to bare threads like hers are – his don't sport holes or mismatched patches.

"I'd give you a tour, but this is pretty much it." He motions around unceremoniously. "There's a roof and six bedrooms and three bathrooms."

Though Soul practically stomps around as he leads her further into the house, Maka treads softly. Family portraits hang on the wall, held by heavy, detailed frames. She knows too well the family paid a pretty cent for these – probably more than she'd earn in a lifetime. Fighting off the feeling that she and Soul have no business being together is disheartening, especially when their footsteps echo into the loud silence of the hallways.

Of course, the house doesn't feel like a home. Its lavishness lacks human warmth.

No wonder Soul seeks refuge at the bakery.

"Well, here it is," Soul announces when they reach two tall double doors, throwing them open to reveal a circular room lined with shelves stacked with books. For a split second Maka can't remember where she is because this is like something out of a dream, and for a while she forgets that she and Soul are two people haphazardly cut from different cloths, forced to fit together.

Maka rushes forward, Blair meowing with excitement in her breast pocket. "There are so many books! I don't – oooh, where did you get all of them?"

"My mother and brother are both avid readers." Soul punctuates this fact with a feigned scoff. "A lot of these are theirs, but all of this is my family's collection - generations and generations worth of old, dumb books."

"Wow," she approves, nodding her head absentmindedly, touching the different colored spines. Now's not the time to feel the sting of wondering if her family had anything similar, so she swallows thickly. "With all these books, why would you want to leave?"

Soul falls silent as Maka dives into reading the titles and gingerly pulling one by one off the shelf to admire, skimming the pages before exchanging it for another. Blair eventually jumps out of her coat and wanders over to Soul, who does everything from scowling to hissing to ward Blair away. Giggling at what Maka sees from her periphery – Soul standing on the leather armchair as an attempt to escape, Blair hopping up with a meow to join him – and smiling in response to Soul's indignant huff, Maka puts her current book down.

"She doesn't bite, Soul." Blair purrs when Maka scoops her up, snuggling the kitten against her face. "See? She's an angel."

"Just keep her away from me," he mutters, adjusting his vest. "I haven't forgotten that she tried to scratch off my face."

Maka, ever the advocate for peace, holds Blair out at him like a newborn. "You can start off slow. Just pet her on the head, she likes that."

First Soul gives Blair a look like he's smelled something awful, but he glances at Maka once and softens a bit, the tension in his shoulders easing. He takes a deep breath before saying too fast, "So I have to confess I'm kind of allergic to cats-"

Something like a half-cry, half-screech escapes from Maka's mouth, making Blair flinch and kick her legs like she's trying to run away midair. "I thought you were afraid of her!"

"No! I mean, it's alright – I broke out in a rash where it scratched me, and -"

Mortification infiltrates Maka, who holds Blair close. An inhuman noise creaks out of her, regret makes her want to sink through the floor, and she's caught between choosing two of her favorite things in the world. The idea that Soul's on the same level as cuddly Blair is jarring.

Meanwhile, Soul is doing that thing he does when he's nervous: talking without making sense. "I think I'm fine as long as it doesn't touch me or look like it wants to touch me."

"You should have told me, Soul!"

"It's always around, though! If I had told you, we'd never see each other."

"She's not an inanimate object, don't call her 'it'."

Maka can't help but linger on his word choice. The aloof, mysterious Soul she first met would have never admitted that he wanted to hang out, and Maka would have thought 'thank goodness they won't have to cross paths anymore, what a relief, a blessing'. But now he's expressing fear of never connecting, and Maka can't quite explain why it excites her so thoroughly. She tries to bury that joy and the smile tugging at her lips with partial success.

She clears her throat, smirking at him. "… So you admit you like having me around?

If Soul was flustered before, now it's ten-times intensified: he grabs at the lapels of his vest and straightens himself to his full height like a soldier committed to stoniness. "Shouldn't you be reading?"

She sticks out her tongue. "I can multi-task."

He tries to shrug it off. "I mean, I guess girls have to learn to do that, since being a wife is all sorts of multi-tasking."

It's like a brick hitting her in the face out of nowhere. She's not sure what to address first - the idiotic insinuation that women are trained to be wives and nothing else, or the other veiled remark that she's supposed to be married, like it's the pinnacle of life. Trying to get him to unlearn these atrocities will be the death of her - he will be the death of her.

Not blowing up is the hardest thing she's ever had to do. "I'm barely seventeen! I still live at the home. I'm not married. You thought I was married?"

Soul is redder than a sunburn, waving wildly. "I saw your ring and I just thought, lots of people get engaged when they're fourteen and stuff because of pre-arranged marriages their parents set up – okay, maybe your parents didn't do that to you, but Auntie could have?" He interrupts himself to curse under his breath, knowing he's digging himself a deeper grave. "Why are you so mad about the married thing? I'm sorry I offended you – I think?"

Maka puffs her cheeks out, determined not to giggle at the fact that the last bit of his frantic apology came out in a high-pitched squeak. "What's that mean? How old do I look to you?"

"No matter how I answer you're going to throw a book at me, aren't you?"

"Maybe." Saying her fingers weren't already twitching to reach for the nearest text book would be a lie.

He holds out a protective hand for a few more seconds before deciding he's safe. "So you're not married or engaged. My mistake." Hands in his pocket, he scowls embarrassedly, muttering, "I should've known… who'd wanna marry a loud, short, angry thing like you?"

That comment does earn him a dirty look. "Just when I thought you were decent, you go and say things like that. I bet you're not married, either."

Two things happen: his mouth opens to retort, and his eyes go wide with something like fear. And then he's wearing his stoic face again. "No one could put up with me."

"I bet," she says, though not harshly. There is something else swimming in his expression, and since she hasn't seen it before on him, she can't begin to fathom what it could be. "Wait, so you're old enough to be married?"

He tugs on his cap again, covering his head. "My hair's white but I'm not that old. My nineteenth birthday was two weeks ago, the day before the blizzard."

Feelings rush through Maka, too many of them. "Oh… but… Don't tell me it was the day you were working with me at the bakery…" The guilty look he gives her says it all, and her voice goes up a few octaves: "Soul! You should have been with your family-"

"My brother lives in New York." He shrugs it off like it's nothing, though his demeanor says otherwise. The surliness practically radiates off him. "And I'm getting enough of my parent's attention recently as it is. Besides, hanging out with you isn't too bad."

He's still standing on the armchair like he's on a lifeboat staring at the endless sea, stranded. Maka bends over to let Blair run around before she walks toward him, holding out her hand to help him down. Little pinpricks of excitement buzz on her fingertips when he takes it, when he brightens up as she says, "I like spending time with you, too."