The Riddle at Miller's Pond

The party was already mid when Maya arrived, fashionably late because she'd spent twenty minutes debating whether her crush would notice her outfit. Jace's house thumped with bass that vibrated in her chest, the kind of gathering where everyone pretended to be cooler than they actually were.

Maya grabbed a red solo cup from the kitchen—mostly because holding something made her look less like she was hovering awkwardly near the chips. That's when she found herself trapped in conversation with Tyler, who was absolutely wasted and had appointed himself the gatekeeper to the backyard.

"You can't go back there unless you solve the riddle," Tyler announced with dramatic gravity, swaying slightly. "I am the sphinx of the patio. Answer wrong, and you shall not pass."

Maya almost rolled her eyes. "Okay, hit me with it."

"What has the attention span of a goldfish but never forgets anything?" Tyler looked incredibly proud of himself.

"A drunk teenager?" she guessed.

"Wrong!" He cackled. "It's irony. Because we're all just—wait, that doesn't work. Anyway, you passed anyway because you're cute."

Maya slipped past him before he could elaborate on his questionable riddle logic. The backyard opened up to Miller's Pond beyond the deck—dark water reflecting string lights and the moon. That's where she found Jace, sitting on the dock with his feet dangling over the edge.

"Hey," she said, suddenly nervous. "Hiding from your own party?"

Jace looked up, smiling in that way that made her stomach do unnecessary gymnastics. "Some people are inside playing beer pong with my mom's crystal glasses. I'm prioritizing damage control."

He scooted over, and she sat beside him. His dog, Buster, an elderly golden retriever who was somehow more popular than Jace himself, flopped down between them with a contented sigh.

"You know," Jace said quietly, "sometimes I feel like everyone expects me to have everything figured out. Like I'm supposed to be this sphinx with all the answers about college, life, whatever. But honestly? I've got nothing."

Maya looked at him—really looked at him, not just the version she'd built up in her head. "You know how goldfish supposedly have three-second memories? Sometimes I wish that were true. Then I wouldn't overanalyze every conversation for days afterward."

Jace laughed, and it was real, not performative. "Same. That time I tripped in AP Bio? Still replaying it at 3 AM."

Buster chose that moment to sneeze, shake his head, and accidentally knock Maya's phone toward the water. She lunged for it—Jace grabbed her arm to steady her, and suddenly they were tangled together, faces inches apart, Buster oblivious between them.

"Saved," Jace said, not letting go of her arm.

"Saved," Maya echoed, heart pounding for entirely different reasons now.

The water lapped gently beneath them, string lights flickered above, and somewhere inside, someone definitely just broke something expensive. But right here, in this weird, perfect moment, Maya finally felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.