Archive of Our Own

Once upon a time—because that is how these stories always begin, is it not?—there was a man who did not believe in fairy tales.

His name was Frank Langdon. He was thirty-one years old, and, if you were to ask him to describe himself in three words, he would probably say something like practical, realistic and a work-in-progress—although that last one was, technically, three words.

Practical, because when his marriage started crumbling, he did not fight it. He recognized a sinking ship when he saw one, and he wasn’t about to drown out of stubbornness. The divorce made sense. He had wanted it as much as Abigail—former Abby Langdon, now Abby Faulkner—had wanted it. It was the logical conclusion to a decade of going through the motions. No passions. No spark.  Just the quiet inertia of two people who'd settled into a life of practicality and complacency because it was easier than starting over.

Realistic, because he knew better than to expect anything more from life at this point. Fairy tales were for children. Happy endings were marketing; they were stories that hadn’t gotten to the sad part yet. And the idea that things might magically get better if you just believed hard enough? That was the kind of delusion that got people hurt. Kindness was usually just manipulation with better PR. Dreams were for people who hadn't woken up yet. Frank had woken up a long time ago. And love? Love did not conquer all and it was simply not for him. 

A work-in-progress, because he was one whole year into recovery and still figuring out how to exist in his own skin without the chemical buffer he’d grown dependent on. Still learning how to feel things instead of numbing them. Still proving—to himself, to his kids, to everyone who had watched him fall apart—that he could be trusted again.

If you were to ask anyone else what Frank Langdon was like, though, they’d probably give you a different answer. They’d pause, consider the question, and then say: “Langdon? Ah, he's the most cynical man you’ll ever meet.”

And this is where the story gets interesting.

Because, it was with a particular sense of irony that, on a sunny Saturday afternoon in early August, he found himself staring at the front yard of his old house that had been transformed into what could only be described as a Corona fever dream. He took it all in with a deep breath.

There was an archway filled with purple and white balloons strung across the front porch. Purple and gold sun-patterned triangle banners fluttered in the summer breeze. Yellow paper lanterns—dozens of them, maybe even hundreds—dangled from carefully strung wires overhead. Of course, it’s Tangled. It was Penny’s favorite.

It was very impressive.

But at the same time, it reminded him of everything he didn’t believe in. Magic. Happy endings. The idea that life could surprise you with something good instead of something that would eventually disappoint you. The whole thing made something twist uncomfortably in his chest—this glittering fantasy, this promise wrapped in purple streamers and paper lanterns. Not quite anger or sadness. Just the dull ache of watching other people hope for things he'd stopped letting himself want.

Frank ran a hand through his dark hair and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Blue eyes stared back at him, tired around the edges. At thirty-one, he was starting to understand why his father had always looked so worn down.

Get through the next few hours, he told himself. Your little girl is turning seven today. Make your kids happy. Watch Penny open her presents. Take pictures. Be a good dad. Then—and only then—you can go home to your cramped apartment and your takeout containers and your blissful silence. It’s just your daughter’s birthday party. Get it together, man.

He grabbed the wrapped gift from the passenger seat—a deluxe Rapunzel doll set with a frying pan accessory, because Penny had been insistent and who was Frank if not a dedicated girl dad willing to go the extra mile to make his princess happy?—and stepped out into the warm afternoon sun.

Frank followed the stone path around the side of the house.

Abby met him at the front door, already looking frazzled in that particular way that meant she'd been managing children and decorations and caterers since dawn.

"Frank! Glad you made it," she said, meeting him halfway, sporting a weak smile on her face. She gave him a side hug. “Pen’s been asking for you.”

Despite it all, his ex-wife looked good—relaxed, happy. Happier than she'd been in their marriage, certainly. There was no bitterness in the observation. Their divorce had felt less like a heartbreak and more like finally taking off a pair of shoes that had never quite fit.  They'd been good friends who'd tried to be more and eventually admitted they were better as co-parents than spouses. It was nice to see her like this.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, voice definitely steadier than he felt. After all, he had been giving himself a pep talk on how to survive a kid’s birthday party. “The yard looks incredible.”

“That was mostly Josh,” she said it casually. Frank sensed himself nodding. Joshua was Abby’s boyfriend. She’d started dating him six months after the divorce and she was happier with him than she’d ever been with Frank, it seemed like. He was a good guy, though. Frank had met him and talked to him a couple of times. The kids liked him, too, and he treated them very well. To Frank, that was all that mattered. 

“Where are the kids?” Frank asked, curious.

“They’re finishing getting ready. My mom’s with them. They’ll be out any minute,” Abby said, then she touched his shoulder and guided him to side hallway. “Come on, the party’s in full swing.”

The sounds hit him first: shrieking laughter, the distant thump of Tangled’s soundtrack, and children screaming with the particular joy that only came from sugar highs and bouncy castles. To say the kids were having a blast would be an understatement. Some kids squealed as they piled into the bouncy house shaped like a tower, while others were darting around with animal balloons and toy swords.

The backyard was even more elaborate than the front. There was a bouncy castle shaped like a tower dominating the left side of the lawn. A face-painting station had been set up near the patio, currently manned by a teenager in a brown vest. A craft table overflowed with supplies for making paper lanterns. A cardboard cutout of Maximus stood guard near the snack table, which was loaded with sandwiches and chips and a punch bowl that had been dyed an alarming shade of purple.

Kids ran everywhere in various states of Tangled-themed costumes: tiny Rapunzels with yarn braids, a few Flynns with felt goatees, there was even a kid dressed as Mother Gothel, and, was that a kid in a frying pan costume? Wow.

 ༻𖤓༺ 

"I still think the princess thing is a bad idea."

Frank was standing in the kitchen, watching Abby arrange Pascal-shaped sugar cookies on a platter. Green frosting, little candy eyes. Next to them sat a tray of cupcakes decorated to look like Flynn Rider's wanted poster. Each row had a slightly different nose on Flynn's face: too long, too wide, too pointy, just like the running joke from the movie.

"You've mentioned that," Abby said, not looking up. "Several times. In several texts. And one very long voicemail."

"I'm just saying—these performers, they show up and fill kids' heads with all this stuff about magic and wishes coming true and true love conquering all, and then what? The kids grow up and realize none of it's real. We're setting them up for disappointment."

Abby paused her cookie arrangement to give him a look. "She's turning seven, Frank. Not writing her doctoral thesis on the nature of romantic love."

"I know, but—"

"It's a princess party. She's going to sing some songs, braid some hair, tell the kids they're special. It's not going to psychologically damage our daughter."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually. Because I had princess parties when I was little, and I turned out fine." She slid the cookie platter toward him. "Here. Make yourself useful. Take these outside."

Frank picked up the platter, still grumbling. "I just think we should be teaching kids about realistic expectations. About how the world actually works."

"Frank." Abby's voice softened. "She's seven. Let her believe in magic for a little while longer. Reality will find her soon enough."

That shut him up. He took the cookies outside, then slid back in to help with the rest.

"Penny doesn't know about the performer, by the way," Abby added. "It's a surprise. So don't ruin it.”

“I wouldn’t,” he replied, offended.

“Your face says otherwise.”

“It’s just my face,” he argued.

“Exactly.” She pointed the frosted knife at him. He widened his eyes, raising both of his hands up as one held napkins and the other held birthday hats. “Fix it.”

 ༻𖤓༺ 

“Daddy!” Penny cried as soon as she spotted him, her face lighting up instantly. Frank barely had time to brace himself before Penny launched into his arms, all forty-five pounds of her crashing into his chest with the force of a small hurricane. He caught her, lifting her up and spinning her once before settling her on his hip. “You’re here! I missed you sooooo much!”

“‘Course I’m here, birthday girl,” he said, holding her close as her little arms squeezed around his neck. He kissed her cheek. “Missed you more. How's it feel to be seven, sweetie?"

"I'm super duper happy, Daddy!" Penny beamed her now-teeth-gapped smile, her big blue eyes—his eyes, everyone always said—sparkling in the afternoon sun. Between the two of them, Tanner looked exactly like Abby and Penny was the spitting image of Frank. Frank put her down. Penny grabbed his hand instantly and started pulling him toward the yard. "Look at Tanner! He's Maximus. Doesn't he look silly?"

Before he could have anticipatd, a blur of brown and white crashed into his legs. Frank looked down to find his eight-year-old son grinning up at him, wearing what appeared to be a full horse costume. White fabric body, brown mane, and a stuffed apple clutched in one hand.

Frank couldn't help but laugh. "Hey, buddy. You look awesome. C'mere."

"Mom made the costume." Tanner did a little spin to show it off after hugging Frank. "See? She even made the tail swish. Watch!" He demonstrated, swinging his hips so the fabric tail swayed back and forth. Then, with his index finger up and all, he explained, "I wanted to be the horse because everyone else wanted to be Flynn and I think Eugene is fine but Maximus is way more interesting, you know? He has a whole character arc."

"A character arc," Frank repeated, eyebrows rising.

"Yeah! That's what it's called when someone changes during a story. Mrs. Patterson taught us." Tanner looked up at him seriously, still clutching his stuffed apple. "Maximus starts out thinking Flynn is bad, but then he realizes he was wrong and they become friends." He paused, adjusting his brown yarn mane. "It's about learning to see people differently."

"That's... that's really insightful, Tan-Man."

Tanner shrugged, already distracted by one of Penny's friends trying to pet his costume tail. "Can I go play now? "

"Go ahead,” Frank said, giving his son a pat on the back.

Frank hung back near the snack table, nodding awkwardly at parents he half-recognized from school pick-ups or events.  A strategic location. Close enough to the food that no one would question why he was standing there, far enough from the clusters of chatting parents that he wouldn't have to make conversation. Some of them were old friends—their friends, once—and others were new faces entirely. Some people drifted over, offering polite small talk that felt more like thinly veiled pity. Others lingered on him with a mix of curiosity and judgment, as if he were some kind of outsider—an unfortunate spectacle rather than a father just trying to be present. They all wore the same expression when they looked at him, though: that careful smile, that slight tilt of the head, that oh, you poor thing look that made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

He grabbed a cookie shaped like a sun and bit into it. Too sweet. Everything at this party was just too damn sweet.

“Just got off the phone with the party company," Abby announced, approaching the snack table, smiling all mischievous. She handed Frank a red plastic cup filled with homemade lemonade. "The performer is here. She’s waiting outside.”

He didn’t realize he had winced until Abby laughed at him. "Don't look so terrified. You just have to stand there and take pictures like all the other parents."

"I'm not terrified. I'm just—" He gestured vaguely at the aggressive amount of pink surrounding them. "Processing."

"Process faster,” she said, snapping her figers in a way that demanded him to hurry up. “And try to look like you're having fun. It's your daughter's birthday, for God’s sake, not a root canal."

Frank nodded like this was all perfectly normal—paying someone to dress up as a fictional character for a child’s birthday party, pretend to have magic hair and set kids up for disappointment by lying to them saying that dreams come true and love conquers all.

This is fine, he told himself. You're fine. Just smile and take pictures and videos and don't think about the fact that a stranger in a costume is about to teach your daughter that wishing on stars actually works.

“Pen, baby,” Abby called enthusiastically as she distanced herself from Frank and walked toward the entrance gate along with Joshua. “There’s someone here who’s asking for you. Why don’t you come say hello?” 

As Abby guided Penny to the entrance with her hand gently on the girl’s shoulders, she turned her head and mouthed something along the lines of “I’d start filming now, if I were you.” 

No sooner had Frank whipped out his phone out of his pocket than he heard his daughter scream.

Every second of Penny’s initial confusion melted into uncontainable joy. Her eyes sparkled radiant, and her wide smile stretched from ear to ear as she practically skipped, her little hands waving excitedly in the air as she bounced on the balls of her feet. She was so happy she was squealing.

“OH, MY GOSH, IT’S RAPUNZEL! RAPUNZEL IS HERE!SHE IS HERE!”

The shriek came from somewhere near the bounce house, picking up volume and excitement as it spread through the party like wildfire. Suddenly every child in the backyard was stampeding toward the front gate, a thundering herd of tiny humans in purple dresses and felt goatees, screaming at decibel levels that should have been physically impossible. 

Frank watched the chaos unfold from a safe distance. Zooming in, he could see Penny running toward the princess. After capturing a few seconds of Penny’s adorable reaction, Frank lowered the phone, satisfied with the video he had taken. He looked up and that was when he saw her.

His first thought was: Oh, come on.

Because of course she was beautiful. Of course the performer Abby hired had to look like that—warm smile, flushed cheeks, the kind of effortless presence that made people turn their heads. It was probably part of the job description: "Must be photogenic. Must make cynical divorced dads feel like idiots at children's parties."

The afternoon sun caught her at just the right angle, turning the golden wig into something almost luminous. Long hair cascaded down her back in an elaborate braid woven with purple ribbons and tiny flowers, clearly a wig, but styled with such care that it looked almost real. Almost enchanted. She was wearing a dress exactly the right shade of lavender with pink and white details that Penny could probably identify by heart—a corseted bodice, the fabric shimmering with her every move. She had a frying pan tucked casually under one arm, because of course she did.

Frank looked away, reaching for his lemonade. He also straightened his shirt with his free hand, tugging at the hem as if that would somehow make him look more presentable. For what? He couldn't tell.

He didn't look back.

Except he did.

Damn it.

"Well, hello there! I'm Rapunzel," she called out, her voice bright and melodic, pitched perfectly for ac artoon princess. It should have been annoying. It was warm instead, despite it being completely for show—though there was something almost mechanical about the precision of it. Like she'd practiced that exact tone until it was muscle memory. The brightness never wavered, never cracked. "Oh, my goodness, look at all of you! You're all so adorable, beautiful kids!"

The children yelled “hi” and “hello” and giggled and swarmed closer. She was kneeling on the grass now, eye-level with the children, her purple skirts pooling around her. And eyes—some warm shade he couldn't make out from this distance—that sparkled with something that looked dangerously close to real joy as the children swarmed her. “I heard there was a very special birthday girl here today!”

She's a performer, he told himself. This is literally her job. Looking like that. Acting like that. Making everyone feel special so they tip well and book her again.

Penny practically vibrated with excitement. “That’s me! "

Rapunzel's whole face lit up. "You must be Penny. I've heard so much about you." She spoke like Penny was the only person in the entire world who mattered. "A little bird told me you're very brave and very kind. The loveliest girl in the world. Is that true?"

Penny nodded so hard her tiara nearly flew off. "Pascal told you? Is Pascal here?"

"He's right here." The performer produced a small stuffed chameleon from somewhere in her skirts, and Penny's gasp of delight made Frank smile.

He watched as Rapunzel greeted each child with the same warmth, the same focused attention. She complimented a little boy's Eugene costume. Asked a shy girl with red hair if she liked painting, because she'd heard this party had a wonderful artist attending. Told the kid dressed as a frying pan that he had "excellent taste in weaponry." The children bloomed under her attention, even the ones who'd been hanging back nervously.

Okay, Frank admitted to himself, taking a long sip of too-sweet lemonade. So she's good at her job. So what? Doesn't mean anything.

And then, across the crowd of small heads, her eyes found his.

It was brief—barely a second—but Frank felt it like a physical thing. She smiled at him, that warm princess smile, and something in his chest did another one of those embarrassing little flips that he immediately tried to suppress.

He forced himself to look away first. Casual. Unbothered. Like he hadn't even noticed, like his face wasn't suddenly warm. 

She smiled at everyone like that, he reminded himself. You're not special.  That's literally the point.

The thought should have been comforting.

It really wasn't.

 ༻𖤓༺ 

“Penny, sweetie, Rapunzel is busy—” Frank said as Penny tugged his hand, pulling him forward with determination. 

“She has to meet you, too!” Penny had just told him Rapunzel had met Abby, and it was only fair that she met Frank as well.

Before he could protest any further, he was standing in front of her. This close, he could see that her eyes were definitely hazel—green and gold and brown all mixed together, like sunlight through autumn leaves—and that she had a tiny mole just beside her right eye, a small dark spot against the flushed skin. It was lovely.

“Punzie,” Penny announced casually, as if they’d been friends for years. “This is my daddy!”

The performer dipped into an elegant curtsy, her purple skirts spreading around her like flower petals, her long, long braid sitting on her left shoulder as though it belonged there.

“Oh, it is an honor to meet you, Penny’s daddy!” She exclaimed, a bunny-like smile giving her grin even more personality. The princess poise was there, but it had freedom and character.

He noticed the graceful line of her neck when she tilted her head; the way her hands moved when she talked—expressive, animated, like she was painting pictures in the air. He also noticed the curve of her waist where the purple dress cinched in, the swell of her hips beneath the layered skirt.

Frank just stood there like an idiot.

When he extended his hands for a handshake, he noticed that his palms were, for some reason, all clammy.  He quickly brought them down, drying them on his pants, just like Tanner had earlier when he had spilled some OJ.

Pathetic.

Penny tugged his hand sharply, and when he looked down, she was giving him laser eyes, darting them in Rapunzel’s direction. She was not smiling. The kind of look that said you’d better not embarrass me at my birthday party. This was serious business to Penny Elise Langdon.

Right. Princess. Curtsy. Not a handshake. He should probably—

Frank cleared his throat, tugged at his shirt one more time, and gave an awkward bow. It was stiff and probably looked ridiculous, but Rapunzel's smile widened like he'd done something wonderful, and Penny beamed with approval. She clapped her tiny hands.

"My name's Frank," he said, straightening up.

"Frank," she repeated, and he liked the way it sounded in her voice. The way her teeth touched her bottom lip on the ‘F’.

Why are you even paying attention to this? Get a grip, Jesus.

“He lives in an apartment now,” Penny added, with the devastating matter-of-factness only a freshly turned seven-year-old could manage, “but he’s still my daddy.”

Frank closed his eyes briefly in frustration and embarrassment. When he opened them, though, Rapunzel’s expression had shifted. There was something soft and understanding flickering there before she smoothed it back into her usual cheerfulness.

“But of course!” She said warmly, looking at Penny and holding her hand. “Daddies are daddies no matter where they live. Distance does not change love, does it?”

Penny shook her head. “Nope. He is still the best daddy ever. He just snores really loud and Mommy said she needed sleep.” She frowned thoughtfully. “And also they grew apart. Like plants.”

“Penny—”

“Plants that grow in different directions are still beautiful plants,” Rapunzel said smoothly. “They just need different amounts of sunshine.”

Penny considered this, then nodded solemnly, satisfied. "Can we do the hair braiding now?"

“Absolutely! Go gather as many friends as you can find, right by the tower, and I’ll be right there.”

As Penny scampered off toward the bouncy tower, Rapunzel shifted on her feet, standing closer than she had before. Frank caught a hint of something floral. Her perfume, maybe. Or the flowers woven into her wig. He noticed the smooth skin on the graceful curve of her collarbones where the dress left them bare.

She started to turn away, then paused. She looked back at him over her shoulder, and there was something in her expression: a challenge, maybe. Or an invitation. Her eyes caught his and she held the contact. She squinted, as though she were seeing right through him.

"I hope you're not too old to believe in a little magic."

Frank huffed out something that was almost a laugh. His whole face went red. Again. "Jury's still out."

Her smile widened, like he'd given exactly the answer she'd wanted. She laughed at him, her shoulders going up in an inexplicably adorable way. She skipped a few steps back, still facing him, before turning around.

She walked away, that ridiculous golden braid trailing behind her, and Frank watched her go. Watched the sway of her hips beneath the purple skirt. The elegant line of her back. The way she moved like she was dancing even when she was just walking. When she approached the kids by the tower, she twirled out of happiness and interlaced her fingers just to the right of her face.

He was in so much trouble, he just didn't know it yet.

 ༻𖤓༺ 

The party continued, and Frank tried to be a normal parent. He really did. He took pictures. He applauded the hair-braiding station. He engaged in small talk with the other parents. He ate a sandwich, a Pascal cookie and one of the Flynn Rider cupcakes—the one with the especially wrong nose—and pretended the purple frosting wasn’t going to stain his tongue for hours.

He did find himself watching from his spot by the snack table, though, unable to look away.

He told himself it was because he was watching his kids. And he was: Penny was giving all of her friends all of her attention, sharing her toys and her spotlight with a generosity that made him ridiculously proud; Tanner playing with a group of boys near the bouncy tower, his Maximus costume slightly askew now, occasionally galloping by to "investigate" whatever the main group was doing.

But his eyes kept drifting back to her. To Rapunzel.

She's in costume, he reminded himself. She's working. She's literally playing a character. Stop being weird.

She led a game of “Lantern Tag” and a more dramatic version of musical chairs. He watched her handle the face-painting station when the teenage attendant needed a break, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration, her slender fingers somehow managing to give every child exactly what they wanted without a single complaint. He watched her crouch down to listen to a tiny Flynn Rider who was crying about something, her attention completely focused on him until his tears turned into a wobbly smile.

Frank shifted uncomfortably, swallowing a breathless gulp, and reached for another cup of lemonade.

She's performing, he reminded himself again. More firmly this time. This is her job. All that warmth? Practiced. That patience with the kids? Professional. Nobody is actually this good with children without wanting something in return.

But then he watched her sit in the grass with the shyer kids, the ones who weren't quite ready to join the group activities, and something in his certainty wavered. No parents were filming. No one was even watching except him. She just... sat there. Pulled out coloring pages. Listened to a little boy mumble something about his dog. Frank noticed her shoulders drop—actually drop, like she'd been holding them up near her ears without realizing it. The princess posture softened into something more human. Her voice, when she responded to the kid, was quieter. Less projected. Almost like she needed this as much as the shy ones did.

Maybe she's in it for the tips, the cynical part of his brain offered.

Does she look like someone who's thinking about tips right now?

The cynical voice went quiet. That was the part that scared the shit out of him.

 ༻𖤓༺

At some point, the kids requested "the scary song," and Rapunzel obliged with theatrical relish.

"Mother Knows Best" was apparently a party favorite—something about the dramatic warnings and the chance to boo at the villain. Rapunzel launched into it with gusto, her voice shifting into something darker, more theatrical. She prowled around the circle of children, waggling her fingers ominously, her eyes wide with mock menace.

"Ruffians, thugs, poison ivy, quicksand," she sang, ticking off the dangers on her fingers. "Cannibals and snakes... the plague!"

The children shrieked with delighted horror. A few of them hid behind their hands. The kid in the frying pan costume brandished his foam weapon protectively.

"Also large bugs, men with pointy teeth, and—stop, no more, you'll just upset me..."

Frank watched from his spot by the snack table, arms crossed, trying very hard to look like a normal parent who was not having a minor existential crisis.

Ruffians, he thought. Thugs. Poison ivy. The plague.

All very scary things, supposedly. All the dangers lurking outside the tower, waiting to destroy the naive princess who dared to dream of something more.

And yet.

The scariest thing Frank could think of right now? The most dangerous thing in this backyard, the thing most likely to completely upend his carefully constructed worldview?

A woman in a princess costume who kept making eye contact with him across a circle of seven-year-olds.

That's what was going to destroy him. Not quicksand or cannibals or men with pointy teeth.

Just her. Just the way she moved and laughed and looked at him like she could see something worth looking at. A pretty woman with pretty teeth.

What is wrong with you? he demanded of himself. You're a thirty-one-year-old man. You've been married. You have children. You have mortgage payments. You do not get flustered about women in princess costumes.

Mother Gothel had it all wrong. The real danger wasn't out there in the world. The real danger was letting someone in. Letting yourself hope. Letting the walls come down long enough for something to slip through the cracks.

Frank took a long sip of his lemonade and tried to look unbothered.

He was not unbothered.

Rapunzel finished the song with a dramatic flourish, sweeping her braid around like a weapon, and the children burst into applause. She took a bow.

Before singing “I’ve Got a Dream”, she gave each child a moment to share their own dream as they sat in a circle.

What's your dream?

The question echoed in his head, uninvited. When was the last time anyone had asked him that? When was the last time he'd had an answer?

He used to have dreams. Back before the marriage went stale, before the pills, before the slow unraveling of everything he thought his life would be. He'd wanted things once—vague, half-formed things that had felt possible. A career that mattered. A family that worked. Someone to come home to who actually wanted him there.

Now he just wanted to get through the day without disappointing anyone, which was not a dream. It was survival.

What's your dream, Frank?

He didn't have one. That was the problem. He hadn't had a dream in a long, long time. He'd stopped dreaming somewhere along the way, and he hadn't even noticed until a woman in a purple dress started asking seven-year-olds about their futures.

"And what about the grown-ups?" Rapunzel called out, eyes twinkling. "Do any of the parents want to share?"

A few laughed nervously. Someone's mom said "a full night's sleep" and everyone groaned in solidarity.

Rapunzel's eyes found Frank's across the yard.

He looked away first.

When it was time for all the parts of “When Will My Life Begin?”, she swayed with the music. Frank noticed the way her arms moved, the delicate bones of her wrists, the way her fingers spread wide on the dramatic parts. There was pure, unguarded joy on her face, like she’d forgotten anyone was watching. Like she was a kid again, spinning just because it felt good and fun to spin. The golden braid swung in a wide arc, sunlight catching her as she spun, making it look really enchanted.

Then, she led the kids in a rendition of “I See the Light” that had everyone swaying in their chairs while she sang and played an actual guitar that had materialized from somewhere. Across the circle of children, her eyes found his again. The second time. She faltered for just a half-beat in the song, right when singing “all at once, everything looks different, now that I see you”, then smiled—not the princess smile, something smaller—before looking away. Frank felt something electric shoot down his spine.

When Rapunzel asked all the kids to sit down so she could read them a story, they did so with no complaint. It was a story about being brave and following your heart. She did different voices for each of the characters. Frank found himself leaning in without meaning to do so.

After the story was told, the kids started asking questions. One of the kids asked her if she had ever messed up like the girl in the story.

“Oh, many times! And you know what I’ve learned? You don’t always get things right the first time,” she said, then booped his nose. He smiled. “That’s what second tries are for. And third tries. And fourth ones.”

Another kid asked her if she missed her tower.

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "I do, of course. But sometimes we have to let go of something we think makes us special to discover that we were special all along. When I left my tower, I got to decide who I wanted to be.”

"Did it hurt?" the little boy asked.

"A little." Rapunzel smiled, as sweet as sweet could be. "But not as much as staying would have."

He thought about towers, then. About the walls people built to keep themselves safe—and how those same walls could become prisons if you weren't careful. He'd built plenty of walls over the years. Called them practicality. Called them realism.

Maybe he'd just been locked in a tower of his own making. Mrs. Patterson would be proud.

Fuck.

A little girl with yarn braids asked about finding Flynn.

“You know what’s so funny?” Rapunzel said, retying the girl’s ribbon. “I wasn’t looking for Eugene at all. I just wanted to see the floating lights. I had a whole plan, actually—see the lights, go back home, that was it." She shrugged dramatically. "But sometimes the right people find us when we're not looking. Funny how that works."

Frank felt something crack open in his chest that he'd been keeping locked for a very long time.

"You're staring."

Frank startled so hard he nearly dropped his lemnade. Abby had appeared beside him, a knowing smirk on her face.

"I'm not staring."

"Frank." She laughed. "You're staring so hard. I've been standing here for a full minute and you didn't even notice."

"I was just—she's good with the kids. I was observing. For Penny's sake."

"Uh huh. And that's why you fixed your hair when she came out? And tucked in your shirt? For Penny's sake?"

Frank's face went hot. "I didn't—"

"You absolutely did. I watched you do it. You smoothed down your eyebrows, which I didn't even know was a thing people did." Abby was grinning now, clearly enjoying herself way too much. "You also bowed to her. That was hilarious.”

"Penny gave me the look,” Frank said, defeated.

"The laser eyes?" Abby asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"The laser eyes."

"Mhm. And the hair-fixing? Did Penny give you laser eyes for that, too? Did she telepathically command you to check your reflection in the punch bowl, which you also did, by the way, when you thought no one was looking?"

Frank had no response to that.

Abby's smile softened, just a little. "It's cute, Frank. Really. I don't think I've seen you look at anyone like that in... honestly, I don't think I've ever seen you look at anyone like that. Including me."

"Abby—"

"No, it's fine. It's good, actually." She nudged his shoulder with hers. "I've got Joshua. It's only fair you have someone too. You deserve it. You've worked really hard this past year."

"She's a princess performer. At a children's party. I don't even know her name."

"So find out her name," Abby encouraged, shrugging as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Talk to her after the party. Ask her out. What's the worst that could happen?"

Frank was quiet. A lot was going through his mind. He sighed.

"You could stay in your safe little comfort zone forever and never take a risk on anything." Abby's voice was gentle but firm. "You could do that. But I don't think that's what you want.”

She patted his arm and walked away, leaving Frank standing there with his lemonade and his racing heart and the unsettling feeling that maybe—just maybe—his ex-wife was right.

 ༻𖤓༺

At some point, Rapunzel clapped her hands together and announced that it was time for the Kingdom Dance.

"This is my favorite part of visiting the kingdom," she said, her voice carrying that bright, melodic quality that made every child lean in closer. "Every year, on my birthday, the whole kingdom comes together to dance in the square. And today, since it's Penny's special day, I thought we could bring a little piece of Corona right here to this backyard."

The children cheered. Frank, safely positioned by the snack table, watched as she gathered them into a loose circle on the grass.

"Now, the Kingdom Dance is very special," she explained, demonstrating with graceful hand movements. "You take your partner's hands, like this. You spin, you twirl, you skip around the circle. And the best part?" She grinned conspiratorially. "Every time the music changes, you switch to a new partner. So everyone gets to dance with everyone."

She pulled out a small portable speaker from somewhere—probably the same mysterious place she'd produced Pascal—and a moment later, the instrumental version of "Kingdom Dance" from the movie began to play. The melody was bright and folksy, all fiddles and flutes, and the children immediately started bouncing with excitement.

"Alright, everyone find a partner!"

Frank watched, amused despite himself, as tiny Rapunzels paired up with tiny Flynns, as Tanner grabbed one of his friends, as Penny—

Penny was marching directly toward him.

Oh no.

"Daddy! Come dance!"

"Sweetheart, I don't think—"

"Daddy, please." She grabbed his hand with both of hers, tugging with surprising strength for a seven-year-old. "You have to! It's my birthday!"

"I'm not really a dancer, Pen—"

"Daddy." The laser eyes were back. Full force.

Frank looked desperately toward Abby, who was standing by the patio with Joshua, both of them grinning like this was the most entertaining thing they'd ever witnessed. Abby just shrugged. The two of them were going to dance too.

"Fine," Frank muttered, letting Penny drag him toward the circle. "But I'm warning you, I have no idea what I'm doing."

"That's okay! Punzie will teach us!" Penny exclaimed, as if that weren't the exact problem.

And so Frank Langdon, thirty-one years old, cynical, divorced, and deeply uncomfortable, found himself standing in a circle of children on his ex-wife's lawn, holding his daughter's tiny hands while a woman dressed as a Disney princess counted them in.

"And... one, two, three, go!"

The dance was chaos. Beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

Children spun in the wrong directions. Partners crashed into each other. Someone's yarn braid whipped Frank in the face. The kid in the frying pan costume kept bonking people with his foam handle. Tanner galloped through the middle of the circle, completely ignoring the choreography in favor of staying in character as Maximus.

But somehow, impossibly, it worked. The whole thing was gloriously chaotic and completely unstructured—children grabbed whichever hands were nearest, regardless of who those hands belonged to. Girls giggled through spins with other girls. Boys dramatically dipped their best friends. Parents who'd been watching from the sidelines got pulled in by tiny, insistent fingers, and soon mothers were laughing through the steps with other mothers, fathers were fumbling through turns with other fathers, and nobody seemed to care about anything except keeping up with the music.

Frank stumbled through the steps, guided mostly by Penny's enthusiastic corrections ("No, Daddy, you spin me, not yourself!") and the general flow of small bodies around him. Spin, twirl, skip to the left. Take your partner's hands. He danced with Penny, then with a shy girl in a purple tutu, then with the frying pan kid, who insisted on leading despite being half Frank's height.

The music swelled and shifted.

"Switch partners!" Rapunzel called out.

The circle rotated. Frank moved automatically, reaching for the next pair of hands—

And found himself face to face with her.

She held out her hands, palms up. Frank placed his in hers. Her skin was warm, soft.  

That's when the world went quiet.

Not literally, of course. The children were still screaming and laughing, the Tangled soundtrack was still playing, but it had all been muffled, like he was hearing it from underwater.

There was only her. Only the pressure of her hands in his. Only the way she was looking at him—really looking, not the princess performance look, but something underneath it. Like she could see past all the walls he'd built and was curious about what was behind them.

Oh, Frank thought. Oh no.

This was different. This wasn't just noticing someone was pretty. This wasn't just physical attraction that could be reasoned away, blamed on loneliness or projection or the romance-novel lighting.

This was the thing he didn't believe in. The thing he'd spent years building walls against.

Her smile softened into something that felt just for him.

He couldn't help but smile back.

What the fuck is happening to you?

He didn't have an answer. For the first time in a very long time, Frank Langdon—practical, realistic, work-in-progress—didn't have a single cynical thought to hide behind.

Maybe it was magic.

The thought arrived before he could stop it, and he didn't even try to argue with it.

She was slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed, a few strands of the golden wig coming loose around her face. This close, he could see the tiny beads of sweat at her temples, the way her chest rose and fell beneath the lavender bodice with each breath. This close, Frank could see there was some lace detailing in it. He felt a little crazy.

And then they were dancing.

She guided him through it with gentle pressure—a squeeze of the fingers to signal a turn, a slight tug to pull him in the right direction. Their feet moved over the grass, clumsy and imperfect, and Frank was acutely aware of everything: the brush of her purple skirt against his jeans, the faint floral scent of her perfume, the warmth of her breath.

She squeezed his fingers. He spun her.

The golden braid arced through the air, catching the sunlight, and when she came back to face him, she was closer than before. Close enough that he could see the tiny mole beside her right eye. Close enough that he could count her eyelashes if he wanted to. 

He wanted to.

"Switch partners!" Rapunzel said, mischievously and dramatically breaking Frank's heart.

The spell broke.

Small hands grabbed at Frank's arms. The circle pulled them apart. She was swept away by a little boy in a Flynn Rider vest, and Frank found himself holding hands with a girl in a tiara who immediately started spinning without waiting for him.

He looked for her through the chaos.

She glanced back at him over her shoulder.

Just once. Just long enough.

And then she was gone, swallowed by the swirl of children and music, leaving Frank standing there with his heart slamming against his ribs and the ghost of her warmth still burning on his fingertips.

She stumbled to a stop, laughing and dizzy, and one of the fathers caught her hand to steady her. She clutched her heart dramatically and pretended to swoon, and the kids dissolved into giggles.

She was the one outof breath, but Frank was the one who couldn't really breathe. It had nothing to do with the dance.

"Daddy!" Penny crashed back into him as the song ended. "Wasn't that fun? Did you see me spin?"

"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice came out rough. "You were perfect."

Over Penny's head, he caught Abby's eye. She was still grinning from the dance, and she mouthed something at him that looked suspiciously like "Oh, you're so screwed."

She wasn't wrong.

 ༻𖤓༺ 

The party wound down slowly, the way children's parties always did. Parents arrived to collect sugar-crashed kids. Penny opened presents while sitting on Rapunzel's lap, which she declared was "the best present of all." Tanner fell asleep in his horse costume on a lawn chair, the stuffed apple still clutched in his hand. The bouncy tower deflated slowly in the corner of the yard, looking sad and crumpled without the kids inside it. The face-painting teenager packed up her supplies and left with a wave and a handful of cash from Abby.

Frank helped clean up. Stacked chairs. Collected errant streamers. Threw away the remains of Pascal cookies and wrong-nosed Flynn Rider cupcakes. Normal, mindless tasks that kept his hands busy while his mind wandered somewhere it had no business wandering.

Hazel eyes. The warmth of her hands in his. The way she'd looked at him during the dance—really looked at him, like she could see past all the walls he'd built and wasn't afraid of what was behind them. The way she'd smiled, small and private, just for him.

Stop it, he told himself, aggressively tying off a trash bag. She's a performer. She was working. That's literally her job—making people feel special. You're not special. You're a thirty-one-year-old divorced dad who got a little too invested in a princess at his kid's birthday party.

And yet.

He couldn't stop thinking about the way her breath had caught when he'd spun her. The way she'd stepped closer than she needed to. The way she'd glanced back at him when the dance pulled them apart, like she hadn't wanted to let go either.

Or maybe you imagined all of that, the cynical part of his brain supplied. Maybe you're projecting because you're lonely and she was pretty and she paid attention to you for five minutes.

That was probably it. That was almost certainly it.

He threw the trash bag into the bin harder than necessary.

At some point, between stacking chairs and wiping down tables, he realized he hadn't seen her in a while. The yard was nearly empty now, the chaos of the party reduced to scattered debris and tired parents saying their goodbyes. And Rapunzel—

Rapunzel had vanished.

Frank scanned the yard. The patio. The bouncy tower area. Absolutely nothing.

She'd probably left already. Probably had another party to get to, another group of kids to enchant, another circle of parents to charm. This was just a job to her. He was just another awkward dad she'd danced with for thirty seconds before moving on.

The thought settled in his stomach like a stone.

You should have said something, he told himself. You should have asked for her name, at least. Her real name. You should have—

What? What should he have done? Asked her out in front of his daughter? Handed her his number while she was dressed as a Disney character? The whole thing was absurd. 

He was absurd.

And yet he was still scanning the yard, hoping to catch a glimpse of purple.

God, you're pathetic. He ran a hand through his hair, laughing at himself without any real humor. You're acting like a teenager. This is ridiculous. Get a fucking grip.

But he couldn't get a grip. That was the problem. Something had shifted during that dance, some tectonic plate deep in his chest that he'd thought was permanently frozen, and now he couldn't un-shift it. He kept replaying the moment: her hands in his, the noise fading out, the way the world had shrunk down to just the two of them.

Frank stood in the middle of the half-cleaned yard, holding a trash bag, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. He should just go home. Help Abby finish cleaning up, say goodbye to the kids, drive back to his apartment and his takeout containers and his blissful silence. Forget about the princess. Forget about the dance. Forget about the way his heart had slammed against his ribs when she'd looked at him like—

Like what?

Like she'd seen him. The real him. Not the divorced dad, not the recovering addict, not the cynical mess who didn't believe in fairy tales. Just... him.

He took out the trash. Then, he picked up the decoration bag and took it to the garage. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. On his way out, he collided directly with someone coming from the other direction.

"Oh!"

The other person stumbled backward, and Frank's hand shot out automatically to steady them, catching an elbow—and then he registered who he was looking at and forgot how to breathe.

It was her.

But not her.

Same face—god, what a face—but transformed. The wig was gone, replaced by her real hair—blonde, but a darker shade, falling in loose waves past her shoulders.The dress had been swapped for jeans and a worn T-shirt with a faded print of Monet's Water Lilies that had clearly been washed a hundred times. A gym bag hung from her shoulder, bulging with purple fabric. Aquamarine headphones were hanging from one of the bag straps..

She'd let down her hair. Not the fake golden braid, but the real thing. The tower was gone, the costume was gone, and here she was—just a woman in jeans and a T-shirt, looking up at him with wide hazel eyes.

And she was wearing glasses.

Wire-framed, delicate, slightly too big for her face in a way that shouldn't have been charming but absolutely was. They made her hazel eyes look bigger, softer, more vulnerable. Less cartoonish and more "beautiful woman you might actually meet in real life."

She looked human.

This woman is going to be the death of me.

He felt awkward and nervous and completely out of his depth.

The afternoon light slanted through the small garage window, catching dust motes that floated between them like glitter. Like something out of a dream. This close, without the stage makeup, he could see that tiny mole beside her right eye even more clearly. Could see the exact shade of her lips without the pink lipstick—softer, more natural, slightly chapped. Could see the way her real hair curled slightly at the ends where it had been pressed under the wig.

He noticed things he hadn't been able to notice before. The way her T-shirt hung loose on her frame, the collar slightly stretched. The shape of her bare arms, slender but strong. The faded friendship bracelet on her left wrist, the kind a kid might have made. A thin silver chain around her neck, disappearing beneath her shirt.

Frank's mouth went dry. All he could hear was the stubborn thumpthumpthump of his heart in his ears. He didn’t think he’d been wired to feel these things.

He'd thought—hoped, maybe—that the spell would break when the costume came off. That whatever had short-circuited his brain during the party had been about the performance. The character. The fantasy.

He'd been wrong.

Because standing here in front of him was just a woman. No wig, no dress, no princess persona to hide behind. Just jeans and a faded T-shirt and glasses that were slightly crooked and hair that was doing its own thing after being trapped under a wig all afternoon.

And she was more beautiful like this. Not less. More.

He noticed that she reached up and pressed her palms against her temples, then dragged her fingers back through her hair with a small sound of relief, probably because she was now free of the wig. Her blond hair swayed to the side and Frank felt hypnotized.

"Frank?" Her voice was different too—lower than the bright princess tones, naturally deeper. Not a performance voice, just her real voice. Warm and a little husky. He liked it even more than the princess voice. "I—sorry, I couldn’t find the—"

That's not how it's supposed to work, Frank thought, a little desperately. The illusion is supposed to be better than reality. That's the whole point. That's why people like fairy tales—because reality is disappointing.

But there was nothing disappointing about the way she was looking at him right now. Nothing disappointing about the tiny scar on her chin or the friendship bracelet on her wrist or the way her real voice sounded in the quiet of the garage—lower, warmer, less polished.

More real.

You're in so much trouble, he realized. You're in so much more trouble than you were before.

"No, I'm sorry, I should have—" He realized he was still holding her elbow, he let go quickly. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them: "I was actually looking for you."

"You were?" Her voice went up slightly.

Yeah, Frank. Were you?

You're just going to thank her, he told himself as he shifted on his feet. She was still looking at him. For the party. For making Penny happy. That's a normal thing to do. That's not weird.

"I-I wanted to thank you. You know, for the party." He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. "The kids loved it. Penny loved it. She couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Using your own daughter as an excuse to compliment her. You are ridiculous.

"Thank you." Her smile was different without the costume—shyer, somehow. More uncertain. She had dimples, Frank noticed. Two of them, one on each side. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled.  Her voice was still that lovely low tone: not hoarse or strained, just naturally deeper than her princess voice. It suited her better, somehow. “Penny’s a brilliant girl. She’s clever and polite and very lovely. You can tell she’s very loved.”

Frank didn't know how to take compliments, so he just smiled and nodded. Like he was a normal, functional adult who definitely did not just have his entire nervous system rearranged by the smile of a pretty girl.

“She’s got your eyes,” she said, tilting her head slightly. Then she looked up, completely horrified with herself, as if she hadn’t expected herself to actually say that. "Sorry. That was—I don't know why I said that out loud."

“It's okay. Everybody says that,” Frank smiled.

"Okay. Good," she said, more to herself than to him, really. 

“You were really good with the kids,” he stated the obvious.

Smooth, Langdon. Wow.

"It's my favorite part. The kids. They still believe everything is possible, you know? It’s fun. They haven't learned to be cynical yet."

"Unlike us cynical adults,” he said, touching the back of his neck awkwardly. Was he speaking too fast? He felt like he was speaking too fast.

"Unlike some cynical adults." She tilted her head, studying him. She was clearly separating herself from his category. "You seem like someone who's given up on a few things."

She looked at him when she spoke, but only in glances—a second or two before her gaze would slide to his shoulder, the wall behind him, the dust motes in the light. When he said something that mattered, she'd look back. Like eye contact was something she had to choose to do rather than something that happened automatically.

Frank laughed, startled by her directness. "What gave me away?"

"You watched the whole party like you were waiting for something to go wrong." She wasn't accusing—just observing. "Like you couldn't quite let yourself enjoy it."

Oh, no. She had noticed him watching. This was embarrassing. This was bad, it was so fucking bad.

Shit shit shit.

"That's—" He wanted to deny it, but he couldn't. Not when she was looking at him like she could see straight through him. "Maybe. A little."

"I don't usually—" She stopped, frowning at herself. She wasn't looking directly at him anymore—her eyes kept drifting to a point somewhere past his left shoulder, then back, then away again. Like sustained eye contact took effort she no longer had the energy for. "Sorry, I should probably do more small talk first. That's a thing people do. But I don't have it in me to pretend I'm not curious about you." She looked back at him—actually looked, for a full two seconds. "Can I ask what happened? To make you like that. Waiting for the other shoe to drop."

It wasn't supposed to, but this, somehow, felt even worse. Don't. Do not give yourself hope.

Frank considered the question. Considered the easy deflection, the joke that would let him off the hook.

Do it.

Instead, he found himself telling the truth. 

"Nothing dramatic. No big tragedy. Just... a lot of small disappointments that added up. People not being who they said they were. Relationships that looked good on paper but felt empty. All kinds of problems." He shrugged. "After a while, you start to think maybe that's just how it works. That the fairy tale stuff is just... stuff. You stop believing people can just be good without wanting something in return."

She was quiet for a moment, and Frank found himself holding his breath without meaning to. Watching the way she considered his words. The way her eyebrows drew together slightly when she was thinking. The way she bit her lower lip—a small, unconscious gesture that made his stomach flip.

Focus, he told himself. She's about to say something. Stop staring at her mouth.

"I used to be like that," she said softly. "Like you."

Frank blinked. "You?"

"Mm." She looked away, adjusting her glasses. "After my parents died. They both got sick in the same year. Mom first, then Dad six months later. I was twenty-one." She said it matter-of-factly, but he could hear the weight underneath. Her fingers found the friendship bracelet on her wrist and started turning it. Not nervously, exactly. More like her hands needed something to do while she talked. "It was just my sister and me then. For a while after, I just... couldn't. Couldn't believe in anything. Everything felt like it was going to be taken away, so why bother getting attached? Why bother hoping?"

"I'm sorry," Frank said quietly. "That's—I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. But I remember what it felt like. That kind of cynicism. It feels like armor, right? Like if you just don't expect anything good, you can't be hurt when it doesn't happen. I was convinced that life was just this random, meaningless series of tragedies, and anyone who believed otherwise was either stupid or lying to themselves."

"Yeah." His voice came out rough. "Yeah, that's exactly what it feels like."

"It's a lie, though." She looked back at him. "You still get hurt. You also just get lonely."

Frank didn't know what to say to that. It was too close to the truth. Too close to the walls he'd built, the tower he'd locked himself in, the years of numbing and hiding and pretending everything was fine.

She was watching him, waiting, and he realized he'd gone silent. Lost in his own head. Lost in the way her eyes looked behind those glasses—softer without the stage makeup, more vulnerable, more her. He wanted to reach out and fix the glasses where they'd slipped slightly down her nose. He wanted to trace the line of her jaw with his fingertips. He wanted to hold her face gently in his hands, caress her cheeks. He wanted—

Jesus Christ, Langdon. Get it together. She's sharing something real with you and you're thinking about touching her face.

Frank felt something crack open in his chest. "What changed?"

She was quiet for a moment, considering.

"I started doing this." She gestured at her bag, at the garage, at the fading sounds of children's laughter outside. "Princess parties. It started as a way to make money in college, but then I realized... these kids, they believe so hard. They believe in magic and happy endings and the idea that good things can happen to good people. And for a few hours, when I put on that costume, I get to believe it too. Of course, I believe in a different kind of magic. Kindness. Empathy. Patience. The way people can surprise you if you let them. It's not magic magic. But it feels like magic sometimes. And I think... I think it helps to look at it that way. To treat kindness like something precious and rare. Because then you actually notice when it shows up.I'm not naive. I've seen the worst of what life can do, the worst of people. I just decided I didn't want to let it make me hard." 

She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—the same gesture he'd watched Rapunzel do a dozen times during the party, but somehow different now. Smaller. More uncertain. More human.

Frank realized he'd stopped breathing again.

It had happened with Rapunzel too—that catch in his chest, that skip in his pulse. But that had felt like watching something beautiful from a distance. Like admiring a painting in a museum. Lovely, but untouchable. Behind glass.

This felt like the glass had shattered. She was right there. Real. Flawed. Nervous. Telling him things she probably didn't tell strangers in garages, and looking at him like maybe—just maybe—she wanted him to understand.

The costume was beautiful, he thought. She was beautiful in it.

But this—

This was something else entirely.

This was who she truly was. And she was lovely, charming, enchanting. 

"Sorry. I'm doing the thing where I talk too much. You asked a simple question and I gave you a TED talk."

"I don't mind," Frank said. He meant it.

Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe. Like she'd expected him to be bored.

"They have these huge dreams, you know? Ridiculous, impossible dreams. Astronaut. Princess. Firefighter-veterinarian-rock-star. And they say them out loud like it's nothing. Like dreaming is easy." She smiled, a little wistful. "I forgot how to do that, for a while. After my parents. But being around them...it reminds me."

"Reminds you of what?" Frank asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

"That dreams aren't stupid. They're just... brave." She looked at him, those hazel eyes soft and serious. "It takes courage to want something. To admit you want it. Most people stop doing that once they grow up. They call it being realistic." She shrugged. "I think it's just being scared."

Frank felt like she'd reached into his chest and squeezed.

"That's actually kind of profound,” he said, finally.

"I'm usually not," she said. "Profound, I mean. I'm not great at this."

"At what?"

"Talking. To people. Outside of character." She gestured at herself—the glasses, the T-shirt, the gym bag. "The costume helps. It's like... I have a script when I'm Rapunzel. I know exactly who she is and how she moves and what she says. I can be confident and charming because I'm not really me. I'm Rapunzel. But like this..." She shrugged, her voice—that lovely, naturally low voice—going even softer. "I'm just Melissa. Who overthinks everything and can't figure out where to look when someone's talking to me and says way too much about things nobody asked about."

"Melissa," he repeated. It felt like a love spell. He liked the way it felt. "That's your name?"

"That's my name." She was definitely not making eye contact now, studying the garage floor like it held the secrets of the universe. She adjusted the gym bag on her shoulder. Frank wanted to hold it for her. "Sorry, I should have—I don't know why I didn't say it earlier. But, yeah, Melissa King. Or Mel. Everyone calls me Mel."

Mel. Mel. Mel.

Mel Mel Mel Mel Mel Mel.

He liked the way it sounded. Liked the way her eyes darted up to meet his when he said it, quick and shy and then away again. Liked the way she fidgeted with her bag strap, her fingers restless, like she didn't know what to do with her hands now that she wasn't playing a character.

"I'm Frank. But you knew that."

"I did. Penny was very thorough with the introduction,” Mel said, fiddling with her bag strap, then with her headphones.

"She usually is."

He noticed everything: the way she stood with her weight shifted slightly to one side; the nervous movement of her throat when she swallowed; the flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with the August heat. 

But this time he didn't try to stop. Because this time, it wasn't about the curve of her waist or the swell of her hips or any of the things that had made him feel like a creep at the party.

This time, he was noticing the way she existed. The small, real, imperfect details that made her who she actually was.

And somehow, that was so much worse.

Another pause. Mel shifted her bag on her shoulder, and Frank knew he should let her leave. She had places to be, probably. A life outside of princess parties. Maybe she was going to hang out with friends. Maybe she had a date. Other things—better things—to do on a Saturday evening that didn't involve standing in a dim garage talking to a divorced dad with trust issues.

But he didn't want her to leave.

The realization was startling. Frank couldn't remember the last time he'd actively wanted someone's company. He'd gotten so used to being alone in his tower, to preferring it, that he'd forgotten what it felt like to meet someone and think no, wait, don't go yet.

Then, at the same time:

"I—um—I think I should go," Mel said awkwardly, as if she were disappointed.

"Can I—" He stopped.

Oh.

"Oh," she said, as if she'd read his mind. She paused, one hand on the strap of her bag. Waited. When he didn't continue, she tilted her head, a small furrow appearing between her brows. Was she expecting him to say something? "You were saying?"

Frank opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

He felt like a teenager working up the nerve to ask someone to prom.

Just ask her. It's not hard. People do this all the time. Just say the words.

"I was going to—" He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at his shirt right after. He gulped. "I mean, I wanted to ask if you—"

The words died in his throat.

She was looking at him expectantly, those hazel eyes patient but curious, and Frank felt every ounce of confidence he'd ever possessed evaporate into the glitter-dusted air.

"You know what, never mind." He shook his head, laughing awkwardly. "It's stupid. You've probably got someone already. A boyfriend or—or a girlfriend, or—I don't know. Someone. And even if you didn't, I don't think you'd want to—I mean, why would you? You don't even know me, and I'm—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "I'm this. So. Yeah. Never mind. Forget I said anything. I didn't actually say anything, so there's nothing to forget, but—"

"Frank."

"—and I know that's a lot of presumption on my part, assuming you'd even be interested, which you're probably not, because again, you don't know me, and first impressions aren't exactly my strong suit and—"

"Frank."

He stopped, blinking hard as she watched him.

She was just staring at him, her expression somewhere between confused and amused.Still lovely, though. "What are you trying to say?"

Frank took a breath, then let it out.

"I'm trying to ask you out," he said, grimacing. "On a date. And failing miserably, apparently."

The words hung in the air between them.

Mel's lips parted. Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe. Or hope.

"Yeah, I'd really like that. "

Frank barely heard her. He was already spiraling again.

"I could take you somewhere nice," he continued, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, “For coffee. Or tea, if you don’t like coffee. Or dinner. Or a movie. Anything you want, really. Do people do that still? Shit. I don’t think so. God, I haven't done this in, like, twelve years. Is there an App? There’s probably apps. I’m sorry I’m rambling, you’re really pretty and interesting and I’m nervous—”

"Frank."

He stopped again. "What?"

Frank stared at her.

"I said yes. Like, thirty seconds ago. You just kept talking."

"Really?" He asked, genuinely taken aback. He felt weak in the knees.

She laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her—and something in Frank's chest loosened at the sound. He watched the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. The way she covered her mouth with her hand like she was embarrassed by her own joy.

"Really," She said, biting her lip. "Is that—was that okay? That I said yes? You look surprised."

"I am surprised. I thought for sure you were going to say no."

"Why would I say no?"

“Because i'm completely off my game, here, it's like I've forgotten how to talk,” Frank responded through a huffed laugh, a little embarrassed. "I’m clearly no Prince Charming."

“You know, Flynn was no Prince Charming either. Rapunzel liked him anyway,” Mel said, an adorable blush warming up her cheeks. Frank felt ten feet tall.

Does this mean she likes me?

Jesus fucking Christ, Frank Langdon, what are you, twelve?

They smiled at each other like idiots. Two adults in a garage, grinning for no reason, and Frank couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this light.

This is what it feels like, he thought. This is what all the fuss is about.

"I really do have to go," Melissa said, but she was still smiling. That was the second time she had broken his heart. He didn't mind it, though, because he felt like she'd be the one to stitch it right back up. "My sister will send a search party."

"Can I get your number? So I can actually follow through on this instead of just awkwardly hoping to run into you?"

She fumbled with her gym bag, nearly dropping it in her attempt to get her phone out. He handed her his, and he watched as she typed in her number. Her hands were shaking—he could see the tremor in her fingers as they moved across the screen. She noticed him noticing and ducked her head, embarrassed, but kept typing.

"There," she said, handing it back. Their fingers brushed. Her hand was sweaty just like his.

"Thank you, Mel," he said, thanking her for sparing him a second of her attention. He didn’t feel completely worthy of it yet—not after making a fool of himself so many times on a single day—but he was going to try. She deserved it.

She moved toward the garage door. He stepped to the side to let her pass. She stepped the same direction. They both stopped.

"Sorry—" she started, her voice catching on a nervous laugh.

"No, I'll just—" He gestured vaguely, moving left.

She moved left at the same time. He tried to catch her eyes, but she was looking at the floor, pressing her lips together in an awkward, adorable smile.

Frank wanted to kiss her. The thought arrived fully formed and completely unhelpful.

"Okay—" She laughed, flustered, adjusting her glasses with still-unsteady hands. "This is—we have to stop doing this."

"Left," Frank said, forcing his voice to stay even. "You go left. I'll stay completely still."

"Okay," she tittered, a little breathless. "Left. I can do left."

She stepped carefully to the left. He held his breath. It hit him, then—the way she'd moved during the party, every gesture had been precise and intentional. That was practice. This was what happened without the choreography. He liked it better this way. This was her.

She slipped past him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest, and then she was at the door, silhouetted against the afternoon sun.

She turned back. The light caught her hair, turning it gold. A warm breeze drifted through the open door. She was smiling at him—shy and hopeful and so beautiful it made his chest ache.

"Hey, Frank?"

"Y-Yeah?" He winced at the stutter. One syllable. He'd somehow put a stutter in a one-syllable word.

"I think the jury's going to rule in favor of magic," she said softly, her index finger tapping thoughtfully against her lips. Her smile widened. "A little bird told me the right people find us when we're not looking."

And then, before he could respond—before he could say something stupid or brilliant or anywhere in between—she walked backward toward her car, still watching him, her eyes holding his until her hip caught the side mirror and she stumbled.

She laughed—bright and embarrassed—and fumbled for the door handle, missing it twice before finally wrenching it open.

She waved through the window. A little awkward. A little perfect.

Frank stood in the garage doorway long after her car disappeared around the corner. Glitter floated in the air around him, catching the late afternoon light like something out of the movie his daughter loved so much. Her number was in his phone. Her laugh was still echoing in his ears. And somewhere deep in his chest, in that place he'd kept locked and frozen for years, something was starting to thaw.

He'd spent so long in his tower, convincing himself the view from the window was enough. That it was safer to watch life happen than to risk being part of it. That cynicism was armor and hope was just disappointment in a nicer outfit. He'd stopped dreaming. Told himself it was practical. Told himself it was realistic. Told himself that wanting things only led to losing them, so why bother wanting at all?

But maybe—just maybe—it was finally time to let down the walls, to step outside, to see what the world looked like when you weren't watching it through the window.

Yeah. He could find a new dream.