HANGOVER

Sunday mornings were supposed to be peaceful. A day for sleeping in, scrolling through cat videos, or pretending life's responsibilities didn't exist.

But not for Maggie.

No.

Today was brought to you by the letters

H, A, N, G, O, V, E, and R. And Zia was its most tragic, living, breathing, and groaning mascot.

Her Sunday morning started with a loud, desperate text from Zia that simply said:

"I THINK I'M DYING. HELP."

Which, frankly, wasn't surprising given how the night at Elevé ended—with Zia dramatically hugging a neon "EXIT" sign like it was her long-lost soulmate and proclaiming she was "one with the universe."

Naturally, being the responsible friend she was (and the only one available at eight in the morning), Maggie decided to drag herself out of bed, throw on whatever outfit was closest to her hand—which turned out to be a very questionable pink hoodie and jeans combo—and call Zia to meet her at Rosita's Diner for emergency hangover food.

Zia stumbled into the restaurant looking like a tragic poem.

Dark sunglasses indoors, a hoodie large enough to fit three people, and the aura of someone who had just been punched by life itself.

Maggie tried not to laugh as she waved her over.

"You look like a K-pop idol... if they gave up," Maggie teased as Zia collapsed into the seat across from her like a melting marshmallow.

"Don't. Speak," Zia croaked, lifting one finger dramatically. "The sound waves hurt."

Maggie snorted and slid the laminated menu toward her. "Pick your poison. Or, I guess, your antidote."

Once Zia ordered enough greasy food to feed a football team (two burgers, a plate of fries, a chocolate milkshake, and a sad little salad she ordered out of guilt), they settled into that sacred tradition of post-party damage assessment.

"So," Maggie began, resting her chin on her hand, "what the hell happened to you last night? You said you'd only drink one glass of wine."

Zia groaned and pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead, revealing bloodshot eyes that looked personally offended by the sunlight.

"I did," she insisted. "One... maybe two... okay, maybe three glasses. BUT—" she pointed dramatically, "I swear I was fine after that. Then someone handed me this fancy sparkly thing? And it tasted like juice! How was I supposed to know it was pure alcohol disguised as fairy tears?!"

Maggie shook her head, laughing. "You danced on a table."

"I was expressing myself!" Zia defended, banging a fist lightly on the table before wincing and muttering, "Mistakes were made."

They both chuckled, the memory of Zia singing Celine Dione's "The Heart Will Go On" atop a bar stool vivid and painful.

After the laughter died down, Maggie shifted awkwardly in her seat.

There was something else she needed to bring up, and frankly, it made table-dancing look tame in comparison.

"So, uh," she started, twisting the straw wrapper between her fingers, "I need to tell you something... weird."

Zia immediately sat up straighter, sensing drama like a bloodhound.

"My parents... they... they arranged for me to marry someone," Maggie blurted out.

Zia blinked once. Twice. "I'm sorry, what century is this?"

"I know, right?!" Maggie cried, flailing her arms so hard she nearly knocked over the salt shaker. "And the worst part is... I don't even know the guy!"

"Wait, wait," Zia held up her hands, "back up. Start from the beginning. Who is this mystery husband-to-be?"

Maggie paused, brow furrowed in deep thought. "What was his name again? Marvin―no that's my brother's name Maverick? Mackerel?

No, wait—Maverick!"

Yeah, that sounded pretentious enough.

"Maverick," she said finally, scrunching her nose like the name tasted bad.

Zia choked on her water, coughing violently. "Maverick?!"

"Yeah," Maggie nodded grimly. "Who even names their kid that? Were his parents watching "Atop Gun" when they filled out the birth certificate?"

Zia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her mind spinning.

Because the name Maverick wasn't just some random weird name in her universe—it rang a very, very distant bell.

'Maverick?' she thought to herself, her brain reluctantly dragging up a memory she had buried under layers of useless trivia and celebrity gossip.

In her entire eighteen years on Earth, she only knew one guy with that name.

Her distant cousin.

The one no one really talked about unless they were drunk or bored enough to gossip about the "mysterious heir" who rarely showed his face.

Zia remembered overhearing once at a family party (between an uncle getting arrested and a grandma winning a karaoke contest) that 'Maverick Gaisano—yes, that Maverick—was set to return to the country soon.

Why? No one knew.

Maybe he missed the humidity. Maybe he wanted to open a mango farm. Who knew.

All she knew was that Maverick had... a reputation.

An aloof guy.

Serious, strict, the type who probably thought "fun" was a dirty word.

A man of few words—like, actual grunts counted as full sentences in his world.

There were even rumors he didn't give second chances. If you screwed up once, boom, you were out of his life faster than a text left on read.

Oh, and there was a running joke among cousins that he might be gay... or allergic to women... because not once had anyone seen him with a girlfriend.

Not even a female dog.

But then again, Zia thought with a mental shrug, the world had, like, a billion people in it.

Surely there were other Mavericks running around besides her distant cousin.

Right?

Right?!

Relieved by that comforting (if delusional) thought, Zia pushed the possibility aside.

There was no way.

Zero chance.

Meanwhile, back at the table, Maggie was still struggling to piece together anything useful about her supposed fiancé.

"I tried to remember his last name," she admitted, stabbing a fry viciously into ketchup. "I really did. But my brain just... rejected it."

"Trauma amnesia," Zia diagnosed with a serious nod. "Classic."

"Exactly," Maggie sighed. "The second my parents dropped the marriage bomb, my brain just did a factory reset."

"Wait, wait, important question," Zia leaned forward conspiratorially. "Is he hot?"

Maggie blinked. "I don't know! I don't even remember what he looks like!"

"Girl," Zia groaned, collapsing back into the booth, "you could be marrying a troll doll."

"At least trolls are colorful," Maggie deadpanned.

They dissolved into helpless giggles again, their chaotic laughter filling the quiet corners of Rosita's Diner.

Once their sides stopped hurting from laughing, Zia decided to casually (and strategically) change the topic.

"Oh!" she said brightly, "By the way, you should come to the Zobel Mansion on Tuesday night. We're having a... uh... welcome party thing."

Maggie perked up. "A party?"

"Yeah," Zia nodded enthusiastically, careful not to mention any specifics. No need to stress Maggie out more by hinting that maybe—just maybe—someone named Maverick would be there.

After all, it was probably just a coincidence. Probably.

"And there's free food?" Maggie asked, eyes lighting up.

"Mountains of it," Zia promised.

"Count me in," Maggie declared without hesitation.

If she was going to be married off to a stranger named after a fighter pilot, she might as well eat her feelings first.

As they wrapped up their hangover brunch (which by now resembled more of a full lunch), Maggie felt a tiny sliver of hope sneak into her chest.

Maybe this whole arranged marriage thing wasn't as bad as it sounded.

Maybe Maverick would be... nice?

Normal?

Not allergic to women?

She sighed and sipped her milkshake.

One thing was for sure:

Whatever happened next, it was definitely going to be... interesting.

Especially if Zia was involved.

And Zia was always, always involved.