Chapter Text
Sophie Baek had been awake for twenty-seven hours, which was exactly twenty-six more than she preferred to be conscious. To make matters worse, her hotel wasn’t ready, her suitcase had lost a wheel between Seoul and JFK, and the only thing that was keeping her upright was the promise of a good, strong coffee. New York was her last stop on her book tour before Melbourne – which meant this was the final push, the final crowd, the smile – and Sophie was determined to get through it with at least a shred of dignity.
The coffee shop she found wasn’t one that Rosamund had recommended. It wasn’t even one that the internet insisted that she had to try. It was a tiny little hole in the wall that was tucked between a dry corner and a bodega. It was the kind of shop that looked like it had been decorated by someone who poured their heart and soul into this building. Mismatched chairs. A chalkboard menu. A barista who made Sophie’s caffeine addiction look like a casual hobby.
Perfect.
She slid into a corner table and didn’t even bother getting up to order. She didn’t have the energy. That and she didn’t want to spend money if she didn’t have to. The barista glanced at her once, clocked the exhaustion and wisely decided not to enforce any sort of “customers only” policy.
She flipped it open out of habit. There was no need for her to write – her trilogy was done, it was printed, shipped, and stacked in displays throughout the world – but because she needed something familiar to anchor her. The tour was loud. Touring was a constant. Touring was smiling until her cheeks hurt and having to answer the same question in slightly different ways.
Her notebook was quiet. Her notebook didn’t expect anything from her. She took out her pen, her reliable pen that helped her get through all three books, and clicked it. It let out a tiny blot and then died dramatically.
Of course. Of course this would happen today, like it was some sort of omen.
“Here,” a voice said, as a pen appeared in her peripheral vision – long fingers, ink smudge on the middle knuckle, the faint smell of old paper. She looked up.
The gentleman who was offering it looked like he had the sort of face that suggested that he spent a lot of time thinking – not brooding or dramatic. Just that he was a fount of knowledge if you got to know him. His hair was slightly mussed, like he had pushed his hand through it whilst lost in thought. His glasses were resting on his nose. A sweater vest that was layered over a button-down, as well as a stack of essays right next to his coffee, each page covered in sticky notes.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
“No,” she told him, “But I’ll take it.”
He nodded once and then returned to his grading. Sophie tested the pen. It worked. Miraculously. She scribbled a little star in the corner of her notebook, before glancing up at him.
He didn’t notice.
Thank goodness, Sophie didn’t want to make a fool of herself. Though a few moments later, a paper cup slid into her vision, gently placed beside her.
“You look like you need it,” he said matter-of-factly, as he gestured to the cup, “It’s just a drip. Nothing fancy.”
“I didn’t–”
“I know,” he told her, a small smile starting to form on his lips. “It’s on me.”
He said it like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the kindest thing anyone had done for her all week. To be honest, she could barely even remember the last nice thing a stranger did for her.
She wrapped her hands around the paper cup, letting the heat sink into her fingers. It was warm, real, and probably just enough caffeine to get her through the day. If not, she could try to buy some herself.
“Thank you,” she told him, with genuine gratitude.
He shrugged, already turning back to the essays that he was marking. “Occupational hazard. I caffeinate the hopeless.”
Sophie laughed – it was a small, startled sound that she hadn’t expected to make. But she didn’t look at the man again.
However, she thought about him – his sweater vest, the ink smudged fingers, the quiet steadiness, the unexpected coffee – all the way back to the hotel.
Rosamund spotted her immediately in the lobby.
“There you are,” she said, with a genuine sisterly concern. Sophie Baek may have been Rosamund's client, but that wasn't who she was worrying about right now. She was more concerned about how Sophie had been faring on this tour, which had been far longer than they had initially planned. “I was starting to think you’d collapsed in a gutter, or worse, found a Sephora and got lost in the aisles.”
“I’m here. Mostly.”
Rosamund’s eyes softened, the professional edge giving way to genuine concern. “You look exhausted, Sophie. Well, you’re in luck—I bullied the front desk. Politely, of course. Your room is ready, and I’ve already sent up a tray of actual food.”
Sophie could have wept. “You’re a saint. I’m seriously considering writing you into my nextbook as a benevolent queen.”
“Make sure I have a palace,” Rosamund replied, handing her a keycard. “You have an hour before the car picks us up for the signing. Try to nap. Or at least lie down and pretend you aren't a ghost.”
Posy appeared from behind a large marble pillar, holding a paper bag decorated with tiny hand-drawn stars. “I brought pastries. Three kinds. I couldn't remember if you were in a ‘lemon tart’ mood or a ‘chocolate croissant’ mood, so I got both. And a scone, just in case.”
Sophie took the bag like it was a holy relic. “You’re the only reason I’m still standing.”
“I know,” Posy beamed, linking her arm through Sophie’s as they headed for the elevator. “And I’ve got your favorite face mask. The one that smells like cucumbers and lies.”
Upstairs, the room was a haven of silence. Rosamund snapped open a garment bag while Posy started unpacking the essentials with a gentleness that felt like a hug.
“Wear this,” Rosamund commanded.
Waiting for her was a navy wrap dress, with a subtle texture that caught the light only when she moved. And along the edge of the wrap, a thin silver thread—a quiet echo of the gown she’d wear in Melbourne.
“It’s perfect,” Sophie exhaled.
“You look like the version of you kids draw in fan mail,” Posy said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Heroic, but approachable.”
They helped her get ready—Rosamund with practiced precision and Posy with gentle touches and soft commentary ("Your hair does this really cute swooping thing when you're tired"), It was grounding, the kind of sisterly noise that helped her feel like she could get through this.
“You have that look,” Posy said, pausing with a blending brush in hand.
“What look?” Sophie asked, her eyes closed.
“The ‘I met a stranger and now I’m thinking about them’ look. Your eyebrows do this little twitch.”
Sophie stiffened. “I met a man in a coffee shop. He gave me a pen and a cup of coffee. That’s the end of the story.”
Rosamund looked up from the garment bag, her interest piqued. “A man? In New York? And he gave you something for free? Was he a ghost?”
Posy smiled, a soft, knowing thing. “Maybe that’s why you liked it.”
When they headed downstairs, Sophie felt almost human again.
Almost.
The noise hit Sophie the second they got close—a frantic, high-pitched energy that felt like a physical wall. The line was a mess of denim and backpacks, stretching all the way to the corner. Everyone had their copies out, some of the covers already looking trashed from being read so many times.
Posy pressed her face to the window. “Oh my gosh. Look at that little girl — she’s dressed like Mira.”
Sophie’s heart squeezed. “I’m going to cry.”
“Don’t,” Rosamund said. “Your eyeliner isn't waterproof and we don't have time to reapply it.”
Inside, the staff greeted them with frantic, joyful enthusiasm. Someone handed Posy a name tag, which she immediately decorated with a tiny dragon holding a pencil and wearing a miniature crown.
The signing table sat beneath a towering display of her trilogy:
How Not to Break Up the World
The Catastrophe We Call Fate
The Disaster I Choose
Upon stepping to the makeshift stage, Sophie smiled, the same smile that had carried her through this book tour. “Hi. Thank you for being here. This is my last U.S. stop before I head home to Melbourne, so… it means a lot.”
She opened her book and flipped it to a passage, the same passage that she could probably read in her sleep.
“I’ll read a short excerpt. This is from chapter twenty.”
The room hushed.
She began.
The Disaster I Choose
(Chapter 20: “The Part Where the Floor Moves First”)
The floor shifts under my feet…
Sophie could feel the crowd as they leaned in. She could sense Posy mouthing along. And well, she was sure that Rosamund was pleased with how the event was going. She read the full scene—the crack widening, the violet light, the chandelier chiming, Rowan stepping over the fault line, the storm tightening around them.
It was only when she closed the book, that the thunderous applause started.
“Thank you,” she said, cheeks pinkening, she was never really used to the applause or the praise. “Let’s ask some questions.”
The Q&A was kind and chaotic in the best way.
A teenager asked, “Did you always know she’d choose the disaster?”
A girl in a cape asked, “Can I have her chaos powers.”
A college student asked, “Was Rowan based on someone real.”
Sophie laughed. “No. And if he was, I’d never admit it.”
When the signing actually got going, everything got loud and confusing. Sophie tried to stay on top of it—grin, sign the title page, say something that wasn't "hi"—but the kids in line kept throwing her off. Some of them had hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Others would start talking and just couldn't stop. Then a girl in the front started sobbing before she even got her book out, and Sophie lost it too. She didn't care about looking like a pro; she just leaned over the table and they both sat there crying while the bookstore staff tried to figure out how to keep the line from stalling.
Posy didn't say a word the whole time. She just sat there with a block of neon Post-its, watching people's faces with this weird, intense focus. Every time a book slid past her, she’d slap a drawing on it. For the girl who was still a mess, Posy drew a cat in giant glasses. For a guy who looked like he wanted to crawl into his hoodie and die, she drew a squirrel in a cape. She wasn't making a big deal out of it—she just stuck them on and waited for the next one.
Until something shifted. A sense of recognition before she even looked up. And when she finally lifted her eyes—she froze.
There he was. The man from the coffee shop. The sweater vest was there. The glasses. The ink-smudged fingers holding a well-loved copy of How Not to Break Up the World. And beside him—a girl.
Sophie’s breath caught, staring at the face she had seen not that long ago in line. Clearly, her exhausted mind was playing tricks on her. Rosamund noticed immediately, leaning in. “What’s wrong? Hand cramp?”
“Nothing,” Sophie said too quickly.
Posy followed her gaze, her eyes widening as they landed on the pair. “Oh. He’s cute.”
Sophie nearly choked on her air. “Posy,” Sophie hissed.
“What? He is. And look at the girl with him. She’s adorable.”
Rosamund narrowed her eyes. “Do you know him?”
“No,” Sophie said. Then, quieter: “Sort of. He’s the one who… he gave me coffee today. When I was falling apart.”
The man moved closer with every person signed for. When they reached the table, he let her go first.
“Hi! Who should I make this out to?” Sophie asked.
“Hyacinth,” she said, before leaning in, "I’m not just a reader. I'm your biggest fan. The founder of The Baek-End Fanclub. All twelve thousand members, the six international branches, and the theory-crafting forums. That’s all me..”
Sophie stared. It was impossible to square the girl in the chair with the massive digital footprint she’d left behind. Posy, oblivious to the power dynamic, leaned in and stuck a tiny winged-book doodle onto Hyacinth’s name tag.
Hyacinth looked at the man. He just sighed, that exhausted, fond look of a man who’d lost the debate hours ago. When she looked back at Sophie, her eyes were bright and dangerous.
“I made him come,” Hyacinth said, her finger drumming against the binder. “He’s the one who taught me that if the reader knows the ground is about to give way, you aren't doing it right.”