Astrid Deetz hadn’t meant to crash into the tree.

To be fair, the road curved too sharply, the sun was in her eyes, and the map she scribbled on the back of a receipt wasn’t exactly accurate. She was just trying to explore this new, weird little town before it swallowed her whole. But now here she was half tangled in the branches of a tree, her bike tipped sideways in the dirt, and her pride very, very bruised.

And then she looked up.

You were staring down at her from a treehouse tucked between the limbs like a secret, legs dangling through the slats, an open book resting on your lap. Your eyes met hers with a mixture of shock and something else amusement, maybe?

“You good?” you asked, clearly holding back a laugh.

Astrid, still lying in the grass, coughed once. “Define ‘good.’”

You hopped down like it was nothing, walking over with bare feet and too much confidence. Astrid sat up, brushing leaves out of her hair, trying not to look too embarrassed.

“I was exploring,” she muttered, glaring at her bike like it had betrayed her. “Didn’t realize the trees were booby trapped.”

“That’s not just any tree,” you said, quirking a brow. “It’s my fortress.”

“Your fortress attacked me.”

You grinned. “Maybe you deserved it.”

Astrid hated how easily that smile disarmed her. She wasn’t supposed to get flustered. She was the girl who wore all black, quoted horror movies, and rolled her eyes at most human interaction. But your presence threw her off balance more than the crash had.

You helped her untangle the bike, brushing a leaf off her sleeve, fingers brushing her arm just a little too long.

“I haven’t seen you around,” you said, curious now.

“Just moved in. The haunted house on Hollow Hill.”

You blinked. “Wait, the haunted house?”

Astrid smirked. “That’s what the neighbors whisper, right? Ghosts, curses, overly dramatic goth girls.”

“I mean,” you said, biting your lip, “they might be right about the last part.”

Astrid narrowed her eyes, but she wasn’t mad. Not really.

There was something about you wild and soft all at once. Like the kind of person who builds a treehouse and actually lives in it. Who reads poetry in branches and doesn’t flinch when a girl like her shows up covered in bark and attitude.

You invited her up, and against her better judgment, Astrid followed.

The inside of the treehouse was full of sketches, fairy lights, and tiny paper stars taped to the walls. It smelled like pine and old paper, and she thought it might be the coziest place she’d ever seen.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, offering her half a pack of strawberry gum like it was a peace treaty.

“So,” you asked, “you crash into many girls’ treehouses, or am I special?”

Astrid flushed before she could stop herself.

“You’re annoying,” she muttered, popping the gum in her mouth.

“You’re blushing.”

“I don’t blush.”

You smiled again, that same knowing smile, and suddenly the treehouse felt warmer.

Astrid didn’t believe in fate, or serendipity, or magical moments that made everything click. But she did believe in strange timing. In crashing into things literally and otherwise.

And sitting there, knee to knee with a girl who smelled like wildflowers and trouble, she thought maybe crashing wasn’t always a bad thing.