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“Okay, wait, new theory about kissing just dropped,” I announce.

“Whoa. Just now?” Nat tilts her head toward me on the pillow.

“Right this second. Hot new theory. Actually it’s about us, specifically.”

“Us kissing,” she says.

And for a moment, it’s just—oxytocin. Repeatedly punching me in the face.

“So. My theory is—okay, I’m calling it... Croissantification Theory. The Croissantification Theory of Kissing.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “That sounds— wow . That’s a serious theory.”

“Oh, yeah—it’s pretty dense. And flaky. But I’ll try to break it down for us. So.” I squeeze her hand. “Croissantification

Theory posits that any single instance of kissing occurring between us contains imprints of all past instances of kissing.

And over time, these instances and imprints layer on top of each other with croissantlike power and force.”

“Okay, that’s... incredible.” She turns to me, stunned. “I mean, it does sound a tiny bit like the Croissantness of Time theory—”

“Oh, no—totally different. This one’s about—”

“Kissing.” She smiles.

I smile back. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“We’re gonna have to kiss each other. Like. A lot .”

She lets out a solemn exhale. “You’re right.”

“If we want to achieve full croissantification,” I add.

“Obviously.” She leans closer—but just as her lips graze mine, she stops short. “Wait! Permission to ask a question.”

“Permission granted.”

“What’s the policy on imaginary kisses?”

“The policy,” I say, “is that you should probably just kiss me.”

She kisses me. “Right, but retroactively speaking. What about daydream kisses?”

“Natalorica!” I pull back to look at her, beaming. “Are you trying to say you’ve had a crush on me since the moment we met?”

“We met in kindergarten.”

“My question still stands!”

She leans in, carefully tucking my hair behind my ears. Right, then left. “I’m pretty sure you already know,” she says.

“How would I know if you’re not showing the symptoms?”

“The symptoms?”

“You know, being giddy and jokey and, uh, fixated—what were the other ones?”

“Absolutely wild that you think I haven’t been.”

I sit up straight. “Oh?”

“Seriously? Amelia, I’m like—I’m literally never not staring at you.”

“Not now! I’m talking about before we were girlfriends.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Girlfriends?”

“Uh, yeah? Natalie, we’re not married yet.”

“Wow.” She laughs. “Um. Okay—”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know you are. You say a whole lot of things.” She takes my hand, threading our fingers together. “Okay, so, we’re girlfriends.”

“Yup. Yes.” I lean in to kiss her.

She shoots me a quick, flustered grin. “Just don’t dump me during Chanukah.”

“Never. I’ll double down. Mark my words, Naccabee—you’ll be spinning a four-gimel dreidel.”

“I believe you,” she says, and I’m about to reply.

But then—

A creak, followed by a faint, distant thud. Nat’s front door opening and closing.

I scramble to a seated position. “Parents?”

“We’d have heard the garage. Probably just Mark.”

“I don’t know if it’s just Mark,” I say.

Sure enough, that’s not just Mark’s voice in the hallway. And those are two distinct sets of footsteps on the stairs. Followed

by: wheels squeaking over the wooden hall floor and the quiet bump of luggage outside Nat’s door. Then the door to Mark’s

bedroom opens and shuts, and someone laughs faintly.

Natalie looks at me, biting back a grin, and I’m the entire dandelion life cycle. Wishes, fluff, and flower petals, on an

infinite loop.