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Okay. I’m a bad buddy and a subpar detective.

but, with the power of maths, and guess work, i’m at least as far from the start of the month as the end, and not more than like two weeks off either direction.

so happy early/belated/maybe right on time birthday @yyeann

(it’s not the tenth is it. cause i thought it was the tenth but then that turned out to be someone else birthday so i was like it’s not the tenth but i realize now that people can have the same birthday as other people.)

also i can never tag marsh for some reason but dang did she teach me some things about commas when betaing this i mean i knew i was an idiot but i didn’t know i was stupid.

-

It’s late, and she is, to be honest, a little tipsy.

Pleasantly buzzed, if anyone asked. There’s only one other person on the subway, so she’s not sure if she cares enough to lie. He’s not paying attention anyway; he’s too busy nodding off over his hard guitar case. It’s covered in faded and peeling stickers (the guitar case, not the man), from back when clutter was in. Minimalism’s the thing now, Maka knows. Not that she goes in for it really. Too… minimal.

He’s really hot, for a guy sleeping on a subway. He’s hot enough that being near him hurts a little- mostly her self-esteem, but there’s definitely something happening between her thighs. Not an ache or a pain, but something, that’s for sure.

She knows what it is, it’s that she’s just a sex crazed as her perverted Papa, but somewhere along the line she managed to pick up something called self-control (and a really good vibrator), that it doesn’t seem like he’s ever even heard of. The man couldn’t walk away from a free sample, never mind a pretty face.

Anyway.

What was the point of sitting opposite a hot stranger on a subway car if you couldn’t prove it? Also, aside from being a fucking babe, he has white hair. She’s pretty sure it’s legit too, his eyebrows match and his long thick eyelashes are a pale grey. Fuck him. He probably didn’t even appreciate his eyelashes. Maka was wearing more mascara than she wanted to think about, and hers were still barely there. Liz needs to know about this.

She’s going to send her a picture. He’s asleep; she doesn’t even have to pretend like she’s taking an indulgent night out selfie for her snapchat story.

She digs her phone out of her clutch, the worst kind of bag in Maka’s humble opinion. However it is the only acceptable night out bag. Hers is made of something closer to plastic than fabric, and is excellent for clobbering your way through dance floors to bathrooms.

She contemplates the photo carefully, the lighting is shit and it could all go downhill. She says a silent apology to her Photography tutor from college. She’d only taken the class to fill her art credits, and here she was, wasting her Raw Talent and Limitless Potential taking a creepshot of a hot guy asleep on a subway.

Liz would say ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ and Maka is going to say ‘pics and it did fucking happen loooook at him’ and it’s going to be great.

(Maybe just a touch over tipsy. A touch. She’s not going to do anything really stupid.)

The flash goes off.

Hot Guy stirs, opens his eyes blearily and looks around, going from fast asleep and adorable to very dangerous and scary looking. Also slightly confused.

Maka flung her phone to the far end of the car, the Otterbox cracking loudly against the door at the end of the carriage.

The Hot Guy stares at it.

Maka looks anywhere but the phone. And the Hot Guy.

Then. To make everything worse.

The Hot Guy stares at her.

Her stop was coming up.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuuuuck.

Not fast enough.

He stares at her some more. She avoids eye contact aggressively, but she could feel those red red red eyes burning into her like hot coals. Cause he was Hot. Hothothot. And burning things were Red. Redredred.

Well. Orange. But still. They didn’t even have a word for the colour orange for ages, she’s allowed say that coals burn red.

She wants to go get her phone and forget that this ever happened. But to do she would have to acknowledge that it was her phone and not some… someone else’s phone. Hers. Even though with no one else in the car, who else’s phone could it be? Maybe she could go get it and pray that she never ever saw him again. It was a big city.

No.

Nope.

New Plan.

Spend rest of her life in denial of ownership of that phone. Come to think of it, she’s isn’t sure it even is a phone. Whoever had lost had lost it right at the opposite end of car and it’s hard to tell, from this distance what it is.

Maybe it’s an iPod, or a camera. Or a piece of rubbish.

Pity, whoever had lost it? It had been expensive. Not that Maka knew exactly, it isn’t her phone. It’s... it’s…

Oh god it’s ringing.

Why isn’t it on silent? Why is her ringtone ‘Wannabe’? Was it always this loud? Who’s calling her at this hour? What do the Spice Girls really want?

“You gonna get that?” the Hot Guy- the Hot Musician- nods at her faraway not-her-phone. Maka hmph’s and looks away, blushing hard. “It might be important,”

“What do I care? That’s not my phone,” She said with as much conviction as she could muster, blushing redredred. She certainly didn’t have any dignity to call upon anymore. That traitor phone definitely isn’t hers. She would never use flash.

“Sure,” he said slowly, in a way that indicated he was not buying this but more than willing to humour her. “I guess I’ll go see who it is.”

“No!” Maka squeaks. “Don’t!”

He looks at her.

“It’s uh, their loss. They shouldn’t have a phone if they can’t be responsible about it.”

It’s her stop. Thank fuck. She gets off the subway.

It’s not his stop-- he lives somewhere far away and she will never see him ever again and now she has to buy a new phone.

Great.

-

“Ms. Maka?” Tsugumi is sweet, and has a bit of a hero worship thing going on. Maka gets it. She is very impressive, at least on paper. “Someone dropped this off for you.”

It’s a regular brown envelope with a neat rectangular bulge in it.

“Just leave it on the desk, I’ll get to it in just a sec-“Maka doesn’t want to lose her train of thought. She’ll never get it back if she does. “Thanks, Tsugumi!”

She waves her away, she’s almost done and she’s almost done early, which means she can make an early start on the column she’s been asked to cover.

She turns to the envelope, and opens it.

Not-her-phone falls out, followed by a sheet of manuscript paper with a scrawled handwritten note.

You need to set a pin. Seriously. That’s a huge security risk.

Dinner?

-Soul

And then a hastily added postscript, in a different colour pen.

My number’s programmed in. Under Soul. That’s my name.

Maka scrabbled for her spare charger, but there was no need, the phone lit up as soon as she hit the home button.

Oh.

Hot Subway Guy looks even better without a shirt.

#yyeann

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