The Papaya Protocol

Maya's backpack hit the locker with a dull thud, same as every other Tuesday. But today wasn't same as every other Tuesday. Today was the day she finally confronted Alex about what she'd seen.

"You're basically a terrible spy," she said, sliding up beside him at his baseball practice. The field smelled like cut grass and teenage boy sweat—a combination that still made her stomach do this weird flip thing, even though she'd promised herself she was over that.

Alex jumped, nearly dropping his bat. "What? I'm not—I don't even—"

"Saturday. Grocery store. You were following someone." Maya raised an eyebrow, trying to channel the main character energy she always saw on TikTok. "I saw you behind the papaya display, using your phone like you were some FBI agent or something."

Alex's face turned the color of a really bad sunburn. "I wasn't—okay, fine. I was following someone."

"Who?" Then it hit her, and her stomach did that flip thing again, but worse. "Wait. Were you following—"

"You," he admitted, so quietly she almost didn't hear it over the teammates shouting in the outfield. "I was going to talk to you at the party last weekend, but I chickened out. So I followed you to the store. To like. See what papaya you bought. Which is weird. I know it's weird."

Maya stared at him. The awkwardness was so thick she could practically see it.

"I didn't even buy papaya," she said finally. "I was texting my mom about whether papaya was worth $7. Spoiler: it's not."

Alex laughed, and somehow that made everything less terrible.

"Well," he said, "want to come watch me fail at baseball? I'm batting eighth, which is basically the team's way of saying 'we keep you around for moral support.'"

"I'd love to," Maya said, and the words came out easier than she'd expected. "But only if you never go undercover again. Your spy game needs work."

"Deal." He grinned, and she thought maybe papaya was worth $7 after all. Not the fruit itself—whatever. But this? This was okay.