You tell Sunday the news with excitement: the Astral Express has stopped over Penacony again, and you decide—on a whim, of course—to pay Sunday a visit. You message him cheerfully, ask if he is free, and suggest you two meet up.

Sunday’s heart nearly leaps straight out of his throat.

Outwardly, he keeps his composure—because he’s Sunday, after all—but the truth is, he’s sweating bullets. His ear feathers are trembling, his hands are clammy, and he goes through four different outfits before settling on one. Each one custom-tailored, pristine, carefully selected to convey exactly the right level of elegance without seeming like he tried too hard. He even polishes his halo until it gleams like a divine spotlight.

He’s not just preparing for a visit—he’s preparing for the moment. A private rendezvous. A date, even, if he dares to hope.

So when the day arrives, and Sunday shows up exactly on time (not a second too early, lest he seem overeager), he’s perfectly composed—until he sees Robin. His sister.

She’s standing next to you, cheerful and oblivious. Sunday blinks. Once. Twice.

Wait. This isn’t… This isn’t a date?

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just quietly short-circuits on the inside.

You, on the other hand, light up the moment you see him. Without a trace of guilt, you slip your arm through his with a casual intimacy that immediately short-circuits his brain, and suggest that you can go shopping together.

There it is again. That smile. And Sunday—poor, hopeful, hopeless Sunday—melts on the spot.

What else can he do?

He smiles, ever the gentleman. “As you wish.”

And so begins a day of holy suffering. Sunday trails behind you and Robin through boutique after boutique. He swipes his card before either of you can reach for your wallets, offering polite opinions on fabrics, colors, and shoe styles. No complaints. No protests. Just the faint, unspoken question echoing in his head: Was this a test? Did he pass?

By evening, Sunday’s still trying to figure out how this turned into a family outing.

But then you laugh at something and tug him forward by the sleeve like he belongs right beside you—and maybe, just maybe, that makes it all worth it.