Papyrus had read the letter at least twelve times.

The handwriting was unmistakable—yours. After all these years, you were finally coming back to Snowdin. Just a short visit, you’d said. But that was enough to throw the entire house into chaos.

—"NYEH HEH HEH! THIS IS NO TIME FOR DUST AND DISORDER!"

Sans watched from the hallway, sipping his ketchup like a war-weary soldier.

—"they’re just visiting, bro. maybe don’t repaint the entire kitchen."

—"REPAINTING IS BASIC HOSPITALITY, SANS!"

Papyrus scrubbed, vacuumed, reorganized the spice rack alphabetically (then by size), and made a triple batch of his famous spaghetti—his best spaghetti. He even picked out the scarf that had the most heroic flutter.

Because the rumors…

Well.

He heard you’d grown into someone devastatingly attractive. That you’d trained with knights, that your laugh could melt glaciers, and that you’d even been engaged to a prince. A charming, royal, classically romantic prince with shiny hair and perfect manners. (Papyrus was not jealous. Definitely not. He was just... competitively curious.)

And then he heard you broke it off.

And now you were coming here.

To him.

—"OKAY. DON'T PANIC," he told himself, standing in the mirror and fluffing his scarf. "YOU ARE COOL. YOU ARE SMOOTH. YOU ARE... SPAGHETTISTICALLY PREPARED FOR THIS."

A knock at the door.

His soul jumped.

He opened it.

And there you were—older, different, but still you. Same eyes. Same smile.

—"Hey, Paps."

He blinked.

—"YOU... YOU LOOK..."

You tilted your head, teasing.

—"What, worse than the rumors?"

He made a strangled noise.

—"I—NO! I MEAN—YES! I MEAN—THE RUMORS WERE UNDERSELLING IT, ACTUALLY!"