Penny Teller had survived midterms in her old life, two toxic relationships, and the soul-shaking experience of waking up reincarnated in Pasadena, California.
But nothing—absolutely *nothing*—was as stressful as trying to find a Christmas gift for Sheldon Cooper.
She sat on her couch surrounded by shopping bags, craft supplies, and a half-assembled LEGO Millennium Falcon she definitely wasn't qualified to rebuild.
She groaned and flopped back dramatically.
"I can't give Sheldon anything. He'll either hate it, analyze it to death, or worse—" She paused. "He'll like it."
[SYSTEM NOTE: Warning: Elevated emotional investment detected.]
Penny swatted the air like the notification was a fly. "Go away. I'm allowed to care."
But the truth sat heavy on her chest.
She wanted to give him something thoughtful.
Something meaningful.
Something he wouldn't nitpick or treat like a social obligation.
Something that said 'I see you' without saying 'I like you' in a way the System might pounce on.
Her stomach tightened.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "He's just a friend."
[SYSTEM OBSERVATION: Term "just" flagged as inaccurate.]
"Ugh," Penny hissed. "Snitch."
---
Hours later, she paced the comic shop aisles.
Stuart watched her circle the Funko Pop shelf for the third time.
"Penny," he finally said, "you look like a crow trying to solve a puzzle box."
She stopped. "…that is shockingly accurate."
"Gift trouble?"
"Gift nightmare," Penny corrected. "It's for Sheldon."
Stuart visibly winced. "Oh. Yeah, that's advanced mode. Like… boss fight level."
"No kidding."
Stuart thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe make something? He likes things that are personal. But not too personal. And not too optimized. And not too decorative. And not—"
"Stuart," Penny cut in gently, "you're spiraling."
"Yeah. That happens when I think about Sheldon."
---
It hit her that night—three cups of tea deep, sprawled over her desk, sketchbook open.
She studied the pages of Starfall Valkyrie, the shining constellations she'd been designing, the celestial patterns framing her characters.
Her pencil stilled mid-air.
Sheldon loved the stars.
Not just scientifically—emotionally. Quietly. In that way he thought nobody noticed.
Penny sat up.
A star map.
A real one.
A custom one.
A stylized educational star panel he could interact with, study, correct if he wanted to.
Something that blended her world and his without crossing the line.
She grabbed a larger sheet of bristol board and started sketching the constellations visible over Pasadena that very winter—labeled, charted, with little interactive flaps that opened to fun facts or myth variations.
It was part science, part art, part Penny.
Something she hoped he could appreciate without the System turning sirens on.
By 3:47 a.m., she had ink all over her hands and the bones of a star-map panel laid out across her kitchen table.
She leaned back, tired but smiling.
"Okay," she whispered. "This feels right."
[SYSTEM ANALYSIS: Emotional output stable. Affinity influence: none.]
Penny sighed. "Thank you for staying out of this one."
---
She was nervous when she knocked on the boys' door the night of their gift exchange. She held the wrapped panel in both hands like it might explode.
Leonard opened the door wearing a holiday sweater that looked like it lost a fight with a reindeer.
"Penny!" he beamed. "Come in!"
Howard and Raj were arguing about eggnog ratios. Sheldon sat rigidly on the couch, hands folded, posture so correct it looked painful.
He perked up when she walked in.
"Oh. Penny." His voice was soft. "You're early."
"Traffic was good," she winked playfully.
They exchanged gifts in a flurry of geek references.
Then it was her turn.
She swallowed. "This one's for you, sweetie."
Sheldon blinked as he took the rectangular package. "For me?"
"Yes," she said. "I, uh… made it."
Slowly—carefully—Sheldon unwrapped the paper.
The room went still.
He stared.
His eyes traced every line, every constellation, every handwritten annotation she'd researched and triple-checked for accuracy.
He didn't blink.
Leonard whispered, "Holy crap."
Sheldon inhaled sharply. Not a gasp—more like a quiet intake of awe he couldn't hide in time.
"This is…" His fingers hovered above the star lines like he was afraid to smudge them. "Penny. This is extraordinary."
Her chest squeezed.
"I knew you liked stars," she said lightly.
"I don't 'like' stars," Sheldon said. Then, softer: "I love them."
He swallowed, voice thin. "This is the most thoughtful gift I've ever—"
His throat closed around the last word.
Penny's heart hammered dangerously territory.
[SYSTEM ALERT: Affinity spike detected. Rising emotional synchronization.]
Her pulse skyrocketed.
Oh no.
Not now.
It was too soon.
She pushed the feeling down, breathing slow, grounding herself.
"Hey," she said with forced brightness, "it's just a little art project. I'm glad you like it."
But Sheldon looked at her then—really looked—and for a single unguarded second his entire face was open warmth.
It nearly undid her.
[SYSTEM STATUS: Affinity stabilized.]
She released the breath she'd been holding.
Sheldon cleared his throat abruptly and straightened like he'd remembered other people existed. "Yes. Well. Thank you, Penny. I'll… display this immediately."
He walked off with the star map held like sacred treasure.
Howard elbowed her. "Okay, Teller. That wasn't a gift. That was a declaration."
Penny turned bright red. "Shush."
---
Later, alone in her apartment, she stared at her hands—still stained faintly with ink.
She'd made something for him. Not because the System nudged her. Not because canon demanded it.
But because she wanted to.
And somehow… that scared her more than anything so far.
She closed her eyes.
"Don't fall yet," she whispered to herself. It was too soon. She knew if Sheldon were to fall in love with her, it would take time...and not much time had passed yet. It had been barely 3 months since she arrived in his world.
But the warmth in her chest was steady.
She was in trouble.