“We’ve got exactly three hours,” I panted as I sprinted up the stairs to our shared flat. The huge tear in the back of Lukas’s confirmation suit was still gaping, and with every step the safety pins lashed my skin like tiny metallic whips. Behind me, Mia thundered up the stairs, her tulle dress snagging on the railing every few seconds and making a noise like someone ripping open a giant strip of Velcro.
“Lukas is still at the warehouse, keeping the relatives busy with whatever’s left of the fake champagne,” Mia said breathlessly as we burst through the front door. “We have to make my room marriage-ready. Now!”
We stormed into Mia’s room. It looked like the archive of a constitutional court—files everywhere, law books stacked to the ceiling, and highlighters glowing in the dark like radioactive material. “This doesn’t scream ‘young love’,” I noted, kicking a pile of the Civil Code aside. “It screams ‘I will sue you for noise pollution’.”
“Shut up and help me!” Mia hissed. She ripped off her duvet. “We need evidence of your existence in here. Where’s your stuff?” “In the IKEA bags in the hallway,” I reminded her.
Ten minutes later, Mia’s room looked like a decorative war zone. We placed my gaming keyboard (still glowing toxic green) right next to her legal journals. I draped three of my unwashed T-shirts—the ones with the fewest pizza stains—artfully over her chair.
“Bathroom, now!” Mia commanded. “Grandma Hildegard will check first thing whether we share a toothbrush or maintain separate territories.”
We ran into the bathroom. The sight was bleak. My single toothbrush stood alone in a plastic cup with a suspicious limescale ring. Next to it was Mia’s arsenal of jars, tubes, and elixirs, all of them looking so expensive they could probably not only smooth wrinkles but prevent them retroactively.
“Here!” Mia shoved a bottle of lavender shower gel into my hand. “Put this where it looks like we both use it. And get your socks out of the sink!”
“Why would I use lavender?” I protested. “I’ll smell like a napping grandma!” “You currently smell like machine oil and fear, Finn-Alexander! Lavender is an upgrade!”
Suddenly we heard a familiar sound from the street below: the solid click of a heavy car door. A Mercedes. “She’s here,” Mia whispered. “Two hours early. Again.”
I looked down at myself. I was still wearing the shredded suit. Mia looked like an exploded cream cake that had just run a marathon through a scrapyard.
“Quick! The kitchen!” I shouted. “We have to pretend we’ve just made a romantic midnight snack!” “With what?” Mia asked in panic. “We’ve got expired yoghurt and half a pack of Maultaschen!”
“Perfect!” I yelled. “Maultaschen are our thing! It’s the continuation of the legend!”
We rushed into the kitchen. I slammed a pan onto the hob while Mia tried to stuff her tulle into a kitchen apron. The lock on the flat door clicked. The horror had a name—and it wore a hat with the diameter of a satellite dish.
“Hello?” Grandma Hildegard’s voice called from the hallway. “Is anyone here? Or has the bridal couple already been swallowed by their own reality?”
I grabbed the pack of Maultaschen and looked at Mia. “Whatever happens,” I whispered, “we stick to the story. We’re in love. We share lavender shower gel. And we love Maultaschen.”