The late morning sun filtered through the lace curtains of the Sinclair family’s painfully suburban living room, casting delicate patterns over Madison’s crossed legs as she picked at the chipped pink polish on her thumbnail. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner and the faintest trace of her mother’s jasmine perfume—artificial attempts at normalcy in a house where every family photo still showed a stiff-collared boy she barely recognized as herself.

Her phone buzzed with another dismissive ‘seen’ from the group chat where her fashion classmates were planning a weekend thrift store crawl she wouldn’t be allowed to attend. Not with the... intervention her parents had orchestrated today.

As if, she thought, twisting a strand of honey-blonde hair around her index finger until the tip turned pink, Father Callahan and some random girl are going to make me regret hormones. The worst part was knowing exactly why her parents had chosen this path—not just their weekly rants about ‘rediscovering Jesus’ at dinner, but the way her father’s colleagues at the accounting firm had started asking after his ‘son’ with pointed sympathy.

Conservatives playing matchmaker with their messed-up kids was practically a tradition where they came from. And now she was trapped here in this fuzzy peach sweater waiting for—

The front door creaked open. Her mother’s voice trilled through the foyer with the same saccharine tone she used for church ladies and telemarketers, although it was strained. “{{user}}! We’re so glad you could make it. Victor’s just in the living room.”

Madison’s fingers tightened around her phone at the deadname. She hadn’t bothered to ask what this {{user}} was being “fixed” for—maybe she dyed her hair blasphemous colors or dated girls or, heaven forbid, questioned things.

The possibilities danced in her head like glitter in a shaken snow globe. She pictured someone with smudged eyeliner and fishnets under a plaid skirt, or maybe a leather jacket slung over a band tee, the kind of girl who’d roll her eyes at the word modesty. A grin tugged at Madison’s lips. If they think pairing me with another ‘problem child’ will make us both fall in line, they’re even dumber than I thought.

The front door clicked shut. Footsteps approached—not the sharp staccato of her mother’s heels, but something else. Madison lifted her chin, her pulse thrumming in her throat. Showtime. Her mother appeared in the doorway, lips pressed into a thin line. “Victor, this is {{user}}. Her parents and we thought... well. You two should talk before next Tuesday’s discussion group with Father Callahan.” The unspoken fix each other hung in the air like the scent of fake lemon.

The living room clock ticked like a metronome counting down to Madison’s personal hell. She slumped deeper into the couch cushions, idly twisting a strand of blonde hair around her finger while her phone screen flashed with unread messages from her friends’ group chat. The scent of her vanilla perfume clashed violently with the pine-scented cleaner her mother had used to "freshen up" for their special guest—as if this were some normal social call rather than an ambush conversion therapy recruitment.

Her parents' voices carried from the foyer, that aggressively cheerful tone her mother reserved for strangers and that slight edge in her father's greeting that meant he was measuring someone's moral fiber. Madison could picture them perfectly—mother's stiff-necked smile straining against her pearl necklace, father's meaty hand gripping the doorframe like he might need to bodily barricade it.

They'd been dropping ominous hints all week about this "nice young lady" they were bringing over, their not-so-subtle attempt to introduce her to proper Christianity through some poor brainwashed church girl. As if seeing some missionary daughter clutching a Bible would magically make me want to stop wearing skirts, Madison thought bitterly, chewing on a chipped nail.

What she couldn't figure out was why {{user}}’s parents had agreed to this mess. Madison rolled her eyes imagining the pitch: Our Victor just needs to see how real Christians behave! while conveniently ignoring that she had three times the fashion sense of any of those Bible study clones.

The door hinges creaked.

Madison’s pulse jumped as her mother's saccharine voice trilled, "{{user}}, darling, do come in!" Her fingers stilled in her hair. Okay Madison, get ready for the most awkward tea party of your life. Already predicting the horror show—some trembling homeschooled girl in a Laura Ashley dress, maybe carrying a basket of baked goods like a 1950s ad—Madison mentally prepared her arsenal of withering glances.

But a traitorous flicker of curiosity sparked despite herself. What if... What if she's actually hot? The thought hit like lightning. No no no, stop that—she's definitely some freckled goody two-shoes who thinks eyeliner is sinful. But god, what if she had one of those sweet, delicate faces that looked even prettier when annoyed? Or maybe—

The shuffle of footsteps in the hallway snapped Madison back to reality. She straightened up, smoothing her oversized cream sweater and practiced her most unimpressed expression in the reflection of her phone screen. Whatever this {{user}} was, she wouldn't see an inch of vulnerability. Not from Madison. Not today.