Archive of Our Own

I wake slowly, like I'm surfacing from somewhere warm and endless, my body still heavy with sleep and the quiet afterglow of something too intimate and tender to fully put into words, even inside my own head. The world hasn't rushed in yet. It hasn't become loud. There are no rehearsal schedules buzzing through our phones, no managers calling, no screaming crowds, no glittering pressure of being Huntrix pressing down on my shoulders. There's only soft morning light spilling gold across tangled sheets, the distant hum of Seoul far below the penthouse windows, and the steady, grounding warmth curled against my side.

Zoey.

She's half sprawled on top of me like gravity stopped applying to her sometime during the night. One leg is tangled lazily between mine beneath the blankets, her arm draped securely around my waist as if some unconscious part of her spent the entire night making sure I stayed close. Her hair is a soft mess against my shoulder, dark strands spilling over my skin, still faintly damp at the ends from last night's shower. Every slow breath she takes brushes warm against my collarbone, and every single exhale makes my body register her all over again.

For a long moment, I don't move at all. I just lie there beneath the pale morning sunlight and let myself exist in this. In her. In the impossible softness of having someone who reaches for me even asleep.

Because there was a time, too many times, when I genuinely believed I would never have this kind of life. Not after everything. Not after the demon blood threaded through my veins. Not after years spent terrified of what lived beneath my skin, terrified of losing control, terrified that if anyone ever saw too much of me they would recoil. The jagged patterns that once crawled across my body used to feel like proof of something monstrous, something dangerous and fractured and wrong. My own skin used to feel like a warning sign.

But now… My gaze drifts downward, following the faint shimmer tracing along my arm beneath the blankets.

The patterns glow softly in the morning light, no longer sharp and hostile but iridescent, shifting like oil on water every time I breathe. They move gently with the rhythm of my heartbeat, alive in a way that no longer feels frightening. Just honest. Whole. Sometimes they still change colors, purple when fear sinks its claws in too deep, pink when embarrassment catches me off guard, red when anger flares hot and sudden, gold when... My thoughts cut off abruptly. Because Zoey shifts in her sleep. A soft sound escapes her as she presses closer instinctively, her face tucking beneath my jaw like she's searching for me even unconscious, and warmth blooms through me so fast and intense it nearly steals the air from my lungs.

Gold flickers faintly across my skin. Of course it does.

A helpless laugh slips quietly out of me, breathy and fond, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from waking her. Not that she'd mind. Zoey has never once acted like my patterns are something to fear. Never once looked at me like I was something dangerous to survive around. If anything, she looks at me like every strange, glowing, shifting part of me is beautiful. Like every scarred and complicated piece of me is something worth learning by heart.

I still don't know what I did to deserve that kind of love.

Slowly, carefully, I lift my hand and brush a few strands of hair away from her face. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips. She makes a tiny sound, nose scrunching faintly before she settles deeper against me again, and the sight hits somewhere painfully soft inside my chest.

I love her.

The thought isn't new. It hasn't been new for a very long time. But it lands differently now, heavier somehow, rooted in everything we survived together and everything we chose afterward.

After the demon king fell. After we rebuilt the Honmoon. After the world went back to seeing us as glittering idols instead of the girls who bled to keep it safe. After the fighting finally stopped. After we were given something none of us really knew how to handle at first:

Peace. Time to breathe. Time to rest. Time to become people instead of weapons.

My fingers drift down the curve of Zoey's cheek, tracing lightly along her jaw. Her lips part faintly in her sleep like she's leaning into the touch without realizing it, and my chest aches with something so overwhelming it almost feels unfair.

God.

What would my life have looked like if I'd never met her?

The answer comes immediately. Lonely. Controlled. Careful in all the wrong ways.

I would've survived. I know that much. I would've kept going because that's what I was trained to do. But I don't think I would've lived. I would've spent my entire life holding pieces of myself back, terrified that wanting too much or feeling too deeply would eventually hurt someone.

But Zoey never asked me to become smaller.

She just stayed. Even after she knew. Even after Mira knew. Even after the truth about my demon blood could've changed everything between us. Instead of breaking apart, somehow we became softer with each other. More honest. More real.

Zoey stirs again, this time more fully. Her lashes flutter sleepily before she blinks up at me, dazed and warm and still halfway lost in dreams. For a second she just stares like she's orienting herself, making sure I'm really here.

Then her entire face lights up. That smile. God, that smile. Slow and warm and impossibly soft, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

"Hi," she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

My heart immediately forgets how to function properly.

"Hi," I whisper back.

She hums happily, eyes slipping half closed again before she tilts her head just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss against my collarbone.

Gold flashes brighter across my skin.

I exhale shakily. "Zoey…"

"Mhm?" she mumbles against me, already pressing another kiss slightly higher.

"You literally just woke up."

"And?" she asks, completely unbothered.

"And you're already..."

She lifts her head just enough to look at me, eyes heavy lidded but suddenly mischievous, mouth curving into a slow grin that immediately makes my stomach flip.

"Already what?"

I narrow my eyes weakly. "You know exactly what you're doing."

Her grin widens. Actually widens. And then, because she's Zoey and restraint has never existed where affection is concerned, she leans up and kisses me properly. Soft at first. Slow. The kind of kiss that feels like it stretches time instead of moving through it.

Her hand slides slowly along my side beneath the blankets, fingertips warm against bare skin, and my patterns shimmer instinctively beneath her touch like they're reacting specifically to her.

Honestly, they probably are.

I kiss her back before I can overthink it, because thinking has never really been the point with Zoey. Feeling is. Choosing is.

And I choose her. Every single time.

The kiss deepens gradually, naturally, without urgency. There's nowhere else we need to be. Nothing demanding our attention. Just warmth and skin and the slow building pull of wanting each other in the quiet morning light.

Zoey's leg hooks more firmly around mine, dragging me closer until there's barely any space left between us, and I can feel the way she melts against me like this is where she belongs. Like I'm where she belongs.

My hand slips into her hair, fingers threading through soft dark strands as I tilt my head and let the kiss linger, let it deepen naturally the way everything between us always seems to.

Soft becomes warm. Warm becomes heavier. My pulse starts to quicken.

A quiet sound escapes Zoey's throat as she presses closer, chasing me instinctively.

"Rumi…"

My name barely leaves her mouth louder than a whisper, like it's something precious she wants to savor.

Gold floods brighter beneath my skin, glowing through the iridescent patterns in luminous waves.

I pull back just enough to look at her, really look at her, and she's already staring at me like she's completely gone. For me. The realization hits so hard it almost hurts. Dangerously soft.

I brush my thumb gently across her cheek. "You're going to be the death of me."

Her smile turns softer somehow, eyes warm and impossibly fond.

"Worth it."

A helpless laugh slips out of me before I kiss her again. And again. And again.

Until the world disappears completely around us.

By the time we finally make it into the kitchen sometime later, sunlight has fully taken over the penthouse, pouring through the massive windows in warm golden sheets that stretch across the hardwood floors. My hair is still damp from the shower, loose against my shoulders, and Zoey has somehow managed to become even clingier than she was in bed, which honestly feels impressive.

She's wrapped around my side while I try to make tea, her arms loosely looped around my waist from behind, chin resting against my shoulder like she physically cannot tolerate more than a few inches of distance between us.

Not that I mind.

I don't think I'll ever mind.

I reach for the kettle with one hand while steadying myself against the counter with the other, feeling Zoey's warmth pressed fully against my back. She watches me with intense concentration as I fill it with water, like boiling tea is somehow fascinating.

"What are we making?" she asks softly, voice still carrying traces of sleep and warmth.

"Tea," I answer.

She hums thoughtfully. "Exciting."

I glance sideways at her. "You say that like it's disappointing."

"I say that like we could also be ordering pancakes the size of our heads."

"That's still an option."

Her entire posture perks up instantly. "It is?"

I laugh quietly under my breath. "Zoey, it's always an option."

She beams at me like I've personally solved world hunger, tightening her arms briefly around my waist before relaxing again. Her fingertips trace absentminded patterns along my side beneath my robe, slow and lazy and affectionate without thought.

Gold shimmers faintly beneath my skin before I can stop it.

I still haven't gotten used to how easily she affects me now. How natural it feels for my body to respond honestly instead of defensively. No fear. No restraint.

Just her.

From the living room, Mira's voice drifts toward us. "If you two are ordering breakfast, I'd like to formally request something that isn't entirely sugar."

Zoey gasps dramatically against my shoulder. "Pancakes are not entirely sugar."

"They're structurally dependent on it."

"They're emotionally essential."

"They're dessert."

"They're a lifestyle."

A snort escapes me before I can stop it, and Zoey immediately grins against my skin like she's won something important.

Mira appears in the doorway a moment later, towel around her neck, sipping from a glass of water. Her gaze moves over us slowly, Zoey practically hanging off me, me trying to function around her, and quiet fondness flickers across her face.

"You two are unbelievable."

"You love us," Zoey replies immediately.

"I tolerate you."

"Liar."

Mira's mouth twitches slightly, which is basically confirmation.

The kettle clicks softly as it finishes heating. I pour carefully despite the extra weight attached to my side, and Zoey doesn't move away or apologize for making things difficult. She just trusts me to work around her.

And I do. Easily. Because somewhere along the way, this stopped feeling inconvenient and started feeling like home.

We settle into the kitchen slowly, like there's nowhere else in the world we need to be.

The morning sunlight pours through the floor to ceiling windows in warm gold ribbons, washing the marble counters and hardwood floors in soft light while the city hums quietly far below us. The penthouse still smells faintly like steam from the shower and the floral citrus scent of Zoey's shampoo, layered now with fresh tea and the sweetness of the syrup she'd already started lobbying to order with pancakes.

Mira slides onto one of the stools at the island, graceful even half awake, curling one leg beneath herself as she reaches for her mug. Across from her, I carefully push another mug toward Zoey, the ceramic warm against my fingertips. Zoey finally loosens her grip on me enough to take it, though loosens might be generous. Her hip remains firmly pressed to mine, one arm still hooked loosely around my waist like she's worried I might wander off if she lets go entirely.

Not that I would. Not that I could.

She takes a slow sip, eyes fluttering shut briefly in satisfaction before immediately leaning against me again, her shoulder tucked against my arm. "Okay," she murmurs dramatically, "maybe tea is a little exciting."

I huff out a quiet laugh. "A stunning betrayal of your pancake values."

"Pancakes can still happen," she says quickly, opening one eye to point accusingly at me. "Don't twist my words."

Mira snorts softly into her drink. "You two sound married."

Zoey doesn't even hesitate. "Thank you."

I nearly choke on my tea.

Mira actually laughs this time, low and bright and genuine, while Zoey beams like she's just won something important.

"What?" she asks innocently, looking between us. "I'm just saying we already have an old married couple routine. Rumi makes tea. I cling to her like a koala. Mira judges us spiritually from across the room."

"I judge you directly to your faces," Mira corrects.

"See? Routine."

The kitchen settles into something soft after that. Easy. Familiar. Mira scrolls lazily through something on her phone while occasionally contributing dry commentary to the conversation. Zoey drifts between half-finished thoughts and teasing observations, speaking the way she always does in the mornings, like her mind is still waking up one piece at a time.

And through all of it, she keeps touching me. Not consciously, I don't think. Just instinctively.

Her fingertips brushing against my wrist while she reaches for her mug. Her knee nudging mine beneath the counter. Her hand absently tracing patterns against the fabric tied around my waist while she tells Mira about a dream she barely remembers involving backup dancers dressed as turtles.

"Tactical turtles," Mira says flatly.

"Yes."

"That were somehow choreographing."

"Yes."

"And this made sense to you."

Zoey nods seriously. "Complete sense."

I laugh quietly under my breath, feeling her immediately glance toward me like the sound itself pulls her attention automatically.

There's so much affection in her expression it almost hurts.

God.

I could stay in this moment forever. The morning doesn't ask anything from us. There's no pressure in it. No urgency. Just sunlight, warm tea, quiet conversation, and the soft comfort of existing beside the people I love most.

Then, the doorbell rings.

The sharp sound cuts cleanly through the calm atmosphere, sudden enough that all three of us pause.

Zoey lifts her head immediately, blinking toward the hallway while Mira glances toward the front entrance with mild confusion.

"I've got it," Mira says first, already sliding off the stool.

Zoey watches her leave, brows knitting together slightly. "Were we expecting something?"

I shake my head slowly. "Not that I know of."

Mira disappears down the hallway, her footsteps light against the hardwood floor before fading completely from view. Beside me, I feel Zoey straighten just a little, curiosity replacing the last traces of sleepy softness in her posture.

A moment passes. Then another. The kettle clicks softly as it cools. Somewhere outside, a car horn echoes faintly from the street below.

And then, Mira's voice carries down the hallway.

"It's a delivery."

Zoey hums lightly, unconcerned at first. "Probably management."

I'm about to agree when Mira calls back, her tone noticeably more curious now.

"Does management usually send flowers?"

Zoey freezes.

Not subtly. Not gradually. One second she's warm and relaxed against my side, and the next every muscle in her body stills completely. Her fingers stop moving where they rest against my waist. Even her breathing changes, catching just slightly.

I turn toward her fully.

"…Flowers?" she repeats quietly.

Something shifts in my chest immediately. Not fear exactly, but awareness. Attention. Because whatever just crossed Zoey's face was too quick and too small for most people to notice. But I notice everything about her.

Mira reappears a second later carrying a massive bouquet wrapped in pale paper and ribbon, flowers spilling out in bright, carefully arranged colors that immediately feel intentional rather than professional. Tucked beneath one arm is a medium sized wrapped package finished with soft yellow paper.

She sets both carefully on the kitchen island.

"For Zoey," she says.

The room goes strangely still. Zoey doesn't move right away. Doesn't reach for the flowers. Doesn't smile. She just stares at them like they caught her off guard in a way she wasn't prepared for.

I glance between her and the bouquet, noticing details now, the carefully chosen flowers, the handwritten card tucked between the stems, the way Zoey's expression keeps flickering with something difficult to place.

Hesitation. Recognition. Something softer.

"Zoey?" I ask gently.

She blinks like she's surfacing from somewhere far away, then exhales quietly and steps forward.

"Oh," she says lightly, though the tone feels just slightly forced. "Right."

Right?

Mira crosses her arms loosely, studying her. "Do you want to explain that response?"

Zoey picks up the card but doesn't open it. Instead, she turns it over once in her hands like she already knows exactly what's written inside.

"It's nothing," she says after a second. "Just my parents."

That answer immediately raises more questions than it resolves.

Mira tilts her head slightly. "Your parents send nothing in the form of professionally arranged flowers and mystery boxes?"

Zoey huffs out a small laugh, but it lands unevenly. "It's for my birthday."

Silence falls instantly. Heavy. Unexpected.

I feel Mira go completely still beside us.

My own thoughts seem to stop for half a second.

"…Your birthday?" I repeat.

Zoey shrugs, eyes still fixed stubbornly on the card instead of either of us. "Yeah."

Yeah? Just yeah?

"It's coming up," she adds casually.

Coming up.

Coming up?

My mind immediately starts flipping through every conversation we've had over the last several months, every schedule discussion, then to every holiday we've celebrated for the past few years, every celebration Zoey herself orchestrated with terrifying levels of enthusiasm and detail.

Mira's birthday dinner. My birthday. Holiday decorations. Movie nights. Random Tuesday surprises because she saw something that reminded her of us. And somehow, through all of that, not once. Not once has this ever come up, or Mira and I had asked about her own birthday.

Mira speaks first, her voice sharper now, though not angry. Focused.

"When?"

Zoey hesitates. Just for a second.

Then quietly says, "May twenty seventh."

That's soon. Way too soon for this information to feel new.

Something twists hard in my chest, protective and immediate and painfully certain all at once.

"Zoey," I say softly, stepping closer to her. "Why didn't you tell us? I know we should have asked, I guess we always got caught up in stuff with Huntrix or the honmoon but still."

She finally looks up. And there it is again. That tiny flicker in her expression. Something careful. Something guarded. Gone almost immediately beneath another shrug.

"It's not a big deal," she says. "It's just a birthday."

Just a birthday. The words hit me strangely hard.

Mira lets out a slow breath through her nose, clearly unconvinced. "You threw me a three day themed birthday event."

Zoey points weakly at her. "It was immersive."

"You made us custom drinks."

"They matched the aesthetic."

"You hired dancers."

"They committed to the vision."

I bite back a laugh despite myself, but Mira stays focused.

"And yet your birthday is suddenly just a birthday?"

Zoey's smile softens faintly around the edges. "That's different."

"How?"

Zoey goes quiet.

The room seems to settle around that silence. She lowers the card onto the counter carefully, fingertips lingering against the edge of it while she searches for words. When she finally speaks again, her voice is quieter.

"It just is," she says. "Mine were always kind of a mess."

Neither Mira nor I interrupt.

Zoey exhales softly, gaze drifting somewhere distant. "Something would always happen. Schedules changed. People canceled. Something went wrong with reservations or timing or plans, and eventually…" She shrugs again, smaller this time. "I don't know. It stopped feeling worth it."

The words are simple. Gentle, even. But they land heavily anyway. And suddenly everything about Zoey makes a different kind of sense. All the effort she pours into everyone else. The way she memorizes little details about the people she loves. The way she throws herself into making other people feel celebrated. Wanted. Important. Because she knows exactly what it feels like when you don't.

Warmth ripples faintly beneath my skin, my patterns shimmering softly with something deep and steady. Determination. Affection. Something fierce and protective all tangled together.

I glance toward Mira. She's already looking at me. And in that single look, there's an entire conversation.

We don't need words. Not for this.

Zoey clears her throat lightly, visibly trying to brighten the mood again. "Anyway," she says, forcing a smile back onto her face, "it's really not a big deal. You guys don't have to do anything."

I step closer to her slowly. Close enough that she has no choice but to look back at me.

"Okay," I say gently. Her shoulders relax just slightly. And then I smile. Small. Soft. "We won't do anything you don't want," I add.

Behind me, Mira makes the tiniest suspicious noise.

Zoey narrows her eyes immediately. "That felt manipulative."

"It wasn't."

"That absolutely sounded like a setup."

I widen my eyes with complete innocence. "You wound me."

"You're glowing."

Damn it.

I glance down just in time to catch the faint shimmer of gold trailing across my wrist.

Zoey notices immediately and snorts softly. "Caught."

I sigh dramatically. "My body betrays me."

"It's very honest."

"It's very inconvenient."

Her expression softens again, suspicion fading beneath affection as she steps fully into my space and rests her forehead lightly against mine.

"Thank you," she murmurs quietly.

The words hit harder than they should. Because she means them. Because she's genuinely grateful we aren't pushing. Grateful for something that should've been automatic.

My chest tightens painfully around the realization. But I don't let it show. Instead, I tilt my head forward and kiss her softly, slow and lingering enough that I feel her melt almost immediately against me.

"Of course," I whisper.

And as she pulls back again, finally distracted enough to start opening the package from her parents, I lift my gaze toward Mira. She's already watching me. And this time, there's absolutely no mistaking the silent agreement between us.

We're doing this.

And we're doing it right.

The moment Zoey disappears into the bedroom to call her parents, because of course she does, because she loves loudly and openly and without hesitation, because every emotion she feels gets shared immediately with the people she cares about, Mira moves.

Not dramatically.

Not urgently.

But with the kind of quiet precision that tells me everything before she even says a word.

This is happening.

I follow her into the kitchen automatically, my pulse already beginning to climb for reasons that have nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the sudden, overwhelming need to make this perfect for Zoey. Morning sunlight still spills warmly through the penthouse windows, catching on the untouched flowers sitting across the island counter, the pale wrapping paper around the package, the evidence of a birthday Zoey clearly never intended to make a big deal out of.

Mira leans back against the counter, crossing her arms as she glances once toward the hallway to make sure Zoey is fully out of earshot. We can faintly hear her voice through the bedroom door already, bright and affectionate and animated in that unmistakably Zoey way.

"Oh my god, the flowers are huge!" A pause. "No, I'm not crying, shut up."

Mira looks back at me.

"Well," she says simply.

I stare at her for half a second before a laugh escapes me, breathless and immediate. "Well."

Another beat passes. And then, at exactly the same time.

"We're throwing her a party."

The words overlap perfectly.

I laugh harder this time, the sound warm and helpless because honestly, there was never any other outcome. Of course we're throwing her a party. Of course neither of us is capable of hearing Zoey say it stopped being worth the effort and leaving it there.

Mira nods once, sharp and decisive. "Good. We're aligned."

"We're also on a timeline," I say immediately, already mentally spiraling through ideas, logistics, decorations, food, colors. "When is it again?"

"May twenty seventh."

I do the math automatically. Just over a week. A week to plan something incredible. A week to hide it from one of the most observant people I've ever met. A week to somehow organize an entire surprise celebration for a girl who notices when I switch shampoos.

Mira must land on the exact same realization because her expression sharpens slightly. "We keep this secret until the actual day."

I nod instantly. "No hints. No suspicious behavior."

"No glowing at suspicious moments," she says pointedly.

I grimace. "That happened once."

"That happened fifteen minutes ago."

"Fair."

"You looked at her and turned gold like a mood ring."

"I can't help it."

"That's what concerns me."

A reluctant laugh slips out of me. "Okay. Fine. I'll work on my emotional regulation."

"You won't."

"No," I admit. "I absolutely won't."

Her mouth twitches slightly before she pushes off the counter and starts pacing slowly through the kitchen, already shifting fully into planning mode. "We do everything in stages. Deliveries get routed through management. Anything obvious gets labeled as rehearsal prep or wardrobe shipments. Staff only. No one posts anything. No loose ends."

"And the day of?" I ask.

Mira's smile turns almost dangerous.

"We remove Zoey from the premises."

I blink at her.

"…We remove Zoey."

"Yes."

"How?"

"Bobby."

Of course. Of course Bobby becomes part of the operation. I can already picture the entire thing vividly, Zoey whining dramatically about meetings, clinging to me in protest, bargaining for kisses like they're legal tender. The thought alone makes warmth bloom in my chest.

"We tell her it's tour scheduling," Mira continues calmly. "Or media prep. Something boring enough that she won't want details."

"She'll still complain."

"She always complains."

"She'll stall."

"We account for that."

"She'll cling to me like she's being deployed overseas."

Mira points at me immediately. "And you are going to make that significantly worse."

"…Probably."

"Definitely."

I don't even try to deny it. Because she's right. I absolutely will.

The bedroom door opens faintly down the hallway and Zoey's laughter drifts toward us, bright and unguarded enough to make something ache softly beneath my ribs.

Mira hears it too.

Her expression softens just slightly.

"We're doing this properly," she says quietly.

Not casually. Not jokingly. Properly.

The word lands heavier than I expect.

Because this isn't really about decorations or cake or balloons, not entirely. It's about giving Zoey something she stopped expecting a long time ago. Something she convinced herself wasn't important enough to want.

I glance toward the hallway instinctively. Toward her. And before I can stop myself, the words leave my mouth quietly.

"I want her parents here."

Mira looks back at me immediately.

The kitchen suddenly feels very still.

Not because she's surprised exactly, but because she understands immediately what I'm really saying.

Not just invite them. Meet them. Stand in front of the people who raised Zoey and let them see the person their daughter loves. My throat tightens unexpectedly around the thought.

"I know it's a lot," I continue quickly. "And maybe it's weird and maybe they're busy and maybe..."

"Rumi."

I stop.

Mira's expression gentles, just slightly. "Breathe."

I exhale shakily, only then realizing I'd stopped.

"I just…" My voice lowers. "She lit up when the flowers came. Even after everything she said, she still looked happy they remembered." I glance down at my hands. "And if this is really supposed to be for her, then I want everyone she loves here."

Mira watches me quietly for a second.

Then, softer now, "You're nervous."

That almost makes me laugh.

"I'm terrified."

"Because?"

"Because they're her parents," I admit immediately. "Because they raised her. Because they know every version of her that existed before us and I'm just…" I swallow hard. "What if they don't like me?"

Mira stares at me like I've said something ridiculous.

"Rumi."

"I'm serious."

"You rebuilt the Honmoon."

"That's different. They don't know about that."

"You helped save the world."

"Still different."

"You literally glow gold every time she smiles at you."

I blink.

Mira folds her arms again. "If her parents have functioning eyesight, they already know you adore their daughter."

My chest tightens painfully around the truth in that.

"I just want this to be good for her," I whisper.

Mira's voice softens fully then, steady and certain. "Then invite them."

And somehow that makes the decision feel real.

Immediate. Important. I nod slowly.

"Okay."

"Okay."

The next week changes everything.

Not outwardly.

On the surface, life continues exactly the same.

Rehearsals. Meetings. Late night movie marathons. Zoey stealing half my food despite insisting she wasn't hungry. Mira pretending not to be emotionally invested in our relationship while simultaneously threatening anyone who interrupts our downtime.

But underneath, everything is moving.

Packages begin arriving almost daily, carefully intercepted before Zoey notices them. Mira reroutes deliveries through staff entrances while I start building lists so detailed they become slightly unhinged. Favorite foods. Favorite snacks. Favorite drinks. Favorite flowers. Things Zoey casually mentions once and immediately forgets. Things she reaches for automatically at stores. Things she stares at too long online before deciding she "doesn't need them."

By day two, my notes app has become terrifying.

"Rumi," Mira says at one point, looking over my shoulder while I type furiously into my phone. "Why do you have an entire section labeled important turtle information?"

"Because it's important."

"It says, and I quote, 'prefers sea turtles emotionally but thinks snapping turtles are funny.'"

"That is important."

Mira stares at me for a long second.

"…You're down catastrophically bad."

"God, don't I know it."

It's harder than I expect. Not the planning. The hiding. Because Zoey is observant in ways that border on supernatural. And unfortunately, she's also deeply affectionate, which means she spends most of her time close enough to notice every suspicious glance between me and Mira.

By day three, she's suspicious. Not fully. But enough.

"You're both acting weird," she announces one afternoon from where she's sprawled across the couch with her head in my lap.

I keep my expression carefully neutral while brushing my fingers through her hair. "I'm always weird."

"Not like this."

"What kind of weird is this?"

Zoey narrows her eyes up at me dramatically. "The kind where you and Mira keep making eye contact like villains in a spy movie."

From the kitchen, Mira doesn't even look up from her laptop. "We would be excellent spies."

"No, you wouldn't," Zoey says immediately. "You'd betray each other within hours."

"Incorrect," Mira replies calmly. "We would betray you."

Zoey gasps so loudly she startles herself upright. "How could you?"

I bite back a smile. "You'd deserve it."

She whips toward me, scandalized. "Rumi."

"Yes?"

"I would never deserve betrayal."

"You ate Mira's dessert last week and blamed it on me."

"That was tactical."

"That was criminal."

"That was survival."

Mira snorts loudly into her coffee.

Zoey huffs dramatically before leaning up and kissing me quick and soft like punctuation.

"I still think you're hiding something," she mutters suspiciously against my mouth.

My patterns flickers pink faintly beneath my skin before I can stop it.

Her eyes immediately drop downward.

"…Rumi."

"I love you," I say instantly.

She melts. Every single time. The suspicion dissolves right out of her expression, replaced with warmth so immediate it almost feels unfair.

"…Okay," she murmurs softly, curling back into my lap like nothing else matters.

From the kitchen, Mira mutters, "You cannot keep using that as a distraction."

"It's not a distraction," I murmur back. "It's true."

"That somehow makes it worse."

By day five, the guest list is finalized.

Staff. Close collaborators. Celine. Bobby. Everyone important. And finally, her parents.

The confirmation comes late at night.

Zoey is asleep beside me after rehearsal, curled against my side with one arm thrown loosely across my waist while the city lights spill softly across the bedroom ceiling. Her breathing is slow and even, her face relaxed in sleep in a way that always makes my chest ache.

My phone buzzes quietly against the mattress.

A message from Mira.

They're coming.

I stare at the screen for a long moment. Then I look at Zoey. At the softness of her expression. At the way sleep strips away every remaining sharp edge until she looks unbearably open. I think about her saying birthdays stopped feeling worth the effort. Think about the way her face changed when the flowers arrived. Think about how hard she loves everyone around her.

Something deep and steady settles into place inside my chest.

I type back carefully.

Thank you.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

We're doing this right.

I look back at Zoey again before setting my phone aside carefully.

Then I lean down and press a soft kiss against her temple.

"Yes," I whisper quietly into the dark. "We are."

By the time her birthday finally arrives, I feel like I'm carrying an entire explosion inside my chest.

Everything is ready. Or as ready as it's going to be.

Mira stands in the kitchen that morning looking infuriatingly composed while I try very hard not to look like someone hiding a massive secret from her girlfriend. Which would be easier if Zoey wasn't practically attached to me.

She's extra clingy today. More than usual.

"I don't want to go," she mumbles into my shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around my waist while Bobby waits downstairs.

"It's just meetings," I say gently.

"They're unnecessary meetings."

"They're important meetings."

"They're Bobby meetings."

"That doesn't make them less important."

"That makes them significantly worse."

Mira hides a smile behind her coffee cup.

Zoey tightens her grip around me stubbornly. "You could come with me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Think. Think quickly.

"I have rehearsal notes to organize."

Mira nods immediately. "She does."

Zoey narrows her eyes slowly. "…You both sound fake."

"We sound prepared," Mira replies.

"You sound suspicious."

"You're suspicious."

"I'm correct."

I laugh softly despite myself and press a kiss into Zoey's hair before I accidentally ruin everything by smiling too much.

"It's only a few hours," I murmur.

She tips her head back to look up at me, soft and stubborn all at once. "You promise you'll still be here when I get back?"

My chest tightens so hard it almost hurts. Because when she comes back, everything changes.

"I promise," I say softly.

She studies me for another second before sighing dramatically. "Fine. But I'm taking extra goodbye kisses as compensation."

"Of course you are," Mira mutters.

Zoey ignores her completely.

Then she kisses me once. Twice. Three times. And then keeps going, soft lingering kisses that steal my breath piece by piece while Bobby probably regrets every life choice that led him here. I let her. I always will. Because she deserves softness. Especially today.

It still takes another fifteen minutes to get her out the door.

She protests. Negotiates. Comes back twice because she forgot something. The second time, the thing she forgot is apparently me.

"Zoey," Mira says flatly as Zoey reappears in the kitchen wrapped around my waist again. "You left thirty seconds ago."

"I missed her."

"You are going downstairs and then to the agency building."

"For an unknown amount of time."

"It's a meeting."

"It's suffering."

Eventually, finally, Bobby succeeds in physically escorting her into the hallway.

Zoey pauses in the doorway one last time, looking back at me with that open, impossibly fond expression that makes my entire chest feel too full.

"Don't miss me too much," she says.

I smile helplessly. "Impossible."

She beams. And then she's gone. The door closes.

Silence.

One second later, Mira claps once sharply.

"All systems go."

And the penthouse erupts into absolute chaos.

Decorating is significantly worse than either of us anticipated.

Not because we're unprepared. Not because we don't have enough supplies. But because now there's pressure.

Now there's an actual clock ticking down somewhere in the background, every passing minute bringing Zoey closer to coming home. Now every crooked streamer feels catastrophic. Every misplaced decoration suddenly matters. Every tiny mistake feels enormous because this isn't just some random celebration thrown together for fun.

This is Zoey.

And somehow that changes everything.

The second the door closes behind her and Bobby, Mira turns into a terrifyingly efficient machine.

"Okay," she says sharply, already pulling her hair back. "You start streamers and balloons. I'll handle food setup and table arrangement. Deliveries should arrive within twenty minutes."

I blink at her. "You sound like a military commander."

"I am a military commander right now."

"That's somehow hotter than it should be."

Mira points at me without missing a beat. "Focus."

"I'm focusing."

"You're holding the tape dispenser upside down."

I look down. I am.

"…Right."

The penthouse explodes into motion after that.

Boxes get torn open across the kitchen island. Teal and yellow decorations spill everywhere in glittering piles while Mira starts directing staff members with frightening precision. Music gets turned on low in the background, one of Zoey's carefully curated comfort playlists, soft upbeat songs filling the room while sunlight streams through the windows.

And for a little while, it actually feels manageable.

Then the streamers attack me.

I'm halfway up a ladder trying to secure a long strand of teal ribbon across the ceiling when the tape gives out unexpectedly. The entire thing snaps sideways, wraps around my wrist, catches another hanging strand, and somehow manages to spin me directly into a dangling set of string lights.

I freeze.

There is now ribbon across my chest, lights tangled around one arm, and an alarming amount of tape stuck in my hair.

"…Mira," I say carefully.

From the kitchen island, Mira glances up once. Then immediately starts laughing. Not polite laughing. Not restrained amusement. Actual laughter. Bright and helpless and completely unhelpful.

"This is not funny," I inform her while attempting to untangle myself and somehow making it significantly worse.

"It's extremely funny."

"I'm serious. I'm trapped."

"You did this to yourself."

"I absolutely did not."

"You somehow wrapped lights around your own waist."

"I don't know how that happened!"

Mira walks over finally, still visibly trying not to laugh while she starts untangling ribbon from my arm. "You look like a very angry Christmas decoration."

"I hate this."

"No, you don't."

"…I love doing this for her. I just wish I knew how she makes this look effortless when she organizes an event." I correct weakly.

"That's what I thought."

She finally frees me from the lights, though not before pausing to take a picture.

"Mira."

"For memories."

"You are evil."

"And yet you adore me."

"Unfortunately."

The balloons are somehow worse.

Neither of us realizes until far too late that one of the helium tanks is malfunctioning slightly, which results in about twenty balloons escaping at once and collecting against the impossibly high penthouse ceiling completely out of reach.

We both stand there staring upward.

"…Can you fly?" Mira asks eventually.

"No."

"Can demon powers help?"

"Not unless you want the balloons destroyed."

Mira sighs deeply. "Get the ladder."

The ladder does not help.

At one point I nearly fall off it because Mira hands me tape while I'm trying to wrangle three balloons at once and one of them smacks directly into my face hard enough to blind me temporarily.

"This is sabotage," I accuse.

"You're losing a fight against latex."

"It's psychological warfare."

"Rumi."

"I'm being bullied in my own home."

Mira snorts so hard she almost drops the balloon ribbon she's tying.

And somehow, through all of it, Zoey remains everywhere.

Not physically. But emotionally. Every decoration reminds me of her. Every decision becomes about her.

The yellow streamers because she once said yellow feels like happiness. The teal balloons because she gravitates toward that color without even thinking. Tiny turtle figurines end up tucked into bookshelves, hidden beside plants, peeking out from behind framed awards because I know she'll eventually find every single one and get ridiculously excited each time.

Mira catches me arranging one tiny sea turtle beside the snack table.

"…That one is wearing sunglasses."

"She would love him."

"She absolutely would."

"Exactly."

The food arrives in waves after that.

Korean fried chicken. Tteokbokki. Stacks of kimbap. California style tacos from the little fusion place Zoey loves so much she once cried over their sauce at two in the morning. Multiple desserts. Far too many snacks. An entire section dedicated purely to sour candy because Zoey somehow enjoys flavors that could strip paint.

The kitchen slowly transforms into organized chaos, every surface covered in something bright or colorful or delicious. The scent of sugar and fried food and fresh flowers fills the entire penthouse until it feels warm and alive and full in a way that makes my chest ache.

Then comes the confetti disaster.

To this day, I genuinely do not understand how it happened. One second I'm opening a small container of metallic teal confetti. The next, explosion. Everywhere. The air itself becomes glittering. Tiny pieces rain down across the entire living room, the couch, the kitchen island, my hair, Mira's coffee.

Silence.

Mira slowly looks down at herself.

Then at me.

"…Rumi."

"I didn't mean to."

"There is confetti in my drink."

"I can fix it."

"You physically cannot."

I glance around helplessly as more confetti continues drifting gently downward like mocking little snowflakes.

"…It's festive?"

Mira closes her eyes briefly. "I'm going to kill you."

"You say that, but you're smiling."

"I'm smiling because if I don't laugh, I'll scream."

She's right, unfortunately. Because after about ten seconds, we both completely lose it. We laugh so hard Mira has to lean against the counter while I'm still standing in the center of the room covered in glitter like some kind of deeply incompetent party demon.

By the time we recover, confetti has somehow reached places that should be physically impossible.

Inside drawers. On top of cabinets. In Mira's hair. At one point I find a piece stuck to my ankle.

Neither of us questions it anymore.

Slowly though, piece by piece, the penthouse starts becoming something beautiful.

The chaos settles into intention. Teal and yellow stretch across every visible surface in warm bursts of color. Streamers drape elegantly from ceiling beams while fairy lights glow softly around the windows, casting everything in warm golden light as evening slowly approaches outside.

The turtles end up everywhere. Everywhere. Tiny ceramic turtles beside flower arrangements. Plush turtles tucked into corners of the couch. A ridiculous turtle shaped serving tray Mira claimed was too much, before secretly placing it near the drinks herself.

Flowers brighten every room in carefully arranged clusters, sunflowers, daisies, soft blue hydrangeas, yellow roses. Bright and warm and alive.

And at the center of it all, the cake.

When it finally arrives, both Mira and I go completely silent. It's perfect. Not elegant in a cold, distant way. But joyful. Bright teal frosting with soft yellow accents, tiny edible turtles around the edges, little gold details shimmering under the light. Written carefully across the top in smooth lettering:

Happy Birthday Zoey

Simple. Perfect. Her.

I stare at it for a long moment, something tightening painfully in my chest. Because suddenly this feels real. Not planning anymore. Not ideas. Real.

"She's going to lose her mind," Mira murmurs quietly beside me.

I smile helplessly. "I hope so."

Guests begin arriving not long after.

First staff members carrying extra supplies and drinks. Then dancers, collaborators, close friends filtering quietly into the penthouse in small groups while Mira organizes everything with clipboard level efficiency.

Everyone immediately lowers their voices once they realize how serious the surprise actually is.

Celine arrives dressed elegantly as always, taking one slow look around the transformed penthouse before raising a brow.

"…You two went all out."

"She deserves it," I say instantly.

Something soft flickers across Celine's face before she nods once. "Yes," she says quietly. "She does."

Bobby keeps us updated through text, completely exhausted already.

She attempted escape twice.

"That sounds right," Mira says.

She also made me stop for coffee.

"That also sounds right."

She threatened emotional devastation if I brought her home late.

Then, the elevator dings again. And suddenly my entire body forgets how to function. Zoey's parents step into the penthouse carefully, looking around with immediate surprise at the decorations, the lights, the warmth of the space.

And before I can think too hard about it, I move toward them. My heartbeat pounds so loudly I can barely hear myself.

"Hi," I say softly. "I'm Rumi."

Zoey's mother smiles immediately. Warm. Open. Kind in a way that feels painfully familiar. Like Zoey.

"Oh," she says softly, looking at me like she already knows exactly who I am. "It's so good to finally meet you."

Something in my chest almost breaks apart right there. Because there's no hesitation in her voice. No uncertainty. Just warmth.

Beside her, Zoey's dad smiles too, reaching out to shake my hand before immediately pulling me into a brief hug instead.

"Thank you for inviting us," he says quietly.

And God. That almost undoes me completely. I glance around the room instinctively, the decorations, the lights, the flowers, the ridiculous amount of turtles hidden everywhere, and then back at them.

"No," I say honestly. "Thank you for coming. I know it probably wasn't easy to get a flight so last minute."

I thank them. Because this matters. Because they matter. Because tonight Zoey is going to walk into a room full of people who love her. And for the first time in a very long time, nothing is going to go wrong.

Eventually, once everything is finally in place, Mira comes to stand beside me near the center of the penthouse.

Music hums softly through hidden speakers. The lights glow warm and golden. People laugh quietly in little groups while waiting for Bobby's text. And all around us, the room looks alive with Zoey. I step back slowly, taking it all in. The colors. The lights. The cake. The turtles. The flowers.

Every tiny detail chosen because it would make her smile.

My chest feels painfully full.

Beside me, Mira exhales quietly.

"…She's going to cry," she says.

I smile. Soft. Certain.

"I know."

The waiting is the hardest part.

Not the planning. Not the decorating. Not even the hours of carefully coordinated chaos that went into turning the penthouse into something bright and warm and unmistakably Zoey. Those things were stressful, sure, but they were manageable. Tangible. Things I could do with my hands.

This, this is different. Because now everything is finished. Now there's nothing left to adjust or fix or rearrange. Now all I can do is stand in the middle of a room that looks like it was built from pieces of Zoey's heart and wait for her to come home.

The penthouse glows softly around us, transformed almost beyond recognition. Warm fairy lights wind around the ceiling beams and bookshelves, casting golden light across every surface while teal and yellow decorations spill color through the room in soft, vibrant bursts. Music hums quietly through hidden speakers, low enough not to ruin the surprise but enough to fill the silence between conversations. Flowers brighten every corner, sunflowers, hydrangeas, yellow roses, and tiny turtles are hidden absolutely everywhere.

Some obvious. Some subtle. Some tucked carefully into corners only Zoey would think to check. And every single detail feels alive with her.

The snack tables are crowded with everything she loves, California fusion food beside Korean comfort dishes, sour candy piled into bowls, drinks lined up in color coordinated rows, stacks of desserts she absolutely would've claimed were too pretty to eat before immediately eating three anyway.

At the center of it all sits the cake.

Perfect. Waiting. And she still has no idea.

That's the part that keeps hitting me over and over again. She thinks she's coming home from boring meetings. She thinks tonight is normal. She has no idea that in a matter of minutes, she's going to walk into a room full of people who love her so much they built an entire night around making sure she feels it.

My heartbeat refuses to settle.

I can physically feel it beneath my ribs, too fast, too loud, while my patterns shift restlessly beneath my skin. Iridescent lines flicker faintly gold against my arms before dimming again, the light catching every time I move.

Gold. Pink. Then calm. Then gold again.

"Breathe."

Mira's voice comes quietly from beside me, steady and grounding in the way she always is when things matter most. I blink, realizing only then that I'd apparently stopped breathing entirely.

"I am breathing," I protest weakly after dragging in a careful inhale.

"You're vibrating."

"I'm not vibrating."

"You are," she says immediately. "Emotionally and physically."

I glance sideways at her.

She's standing beside me with her arms crossed loosely, perfectly composed despite everything, her pink hair pulled back neatly while she surveys the room like a general overseeing a battlefield. Only the slight curve at the corner of her mouth gives away how pleased she actually is.

"…Okay," I admit after a second. "Maybe a little."

"A little?" Mira echoes. "Rumi, your patterns have changed colors six times in the last two minutes."

"That feels exaggerated."

"It isn't."

I exhale slowly and drag both hands through my hair before immediately regretting it because I still somehow find a piece of confetti tangled in the strands.

Mira notices.

"…There's still confetti in your hair."

"There's still confetti in reality," I mutter. "I think it's permanent now. We're going to be finding pieces of it until we die."

That earns a quiet laugh from her.

Then her expression softens just slightly as she looks around the room again.

"She's going to love it."

The thing is, I already know that. I do. But knowing it intellectually and feeling the weight of it are completely different experiences. Because this isn't just a birthday party. It isn't just decorations and cake and surprise guests. It's something deeper than that. Something gentler. A correction. A rewriting. A replacement for every birthday that disappointed her before this one.

And I want this single moment, this one night, to matter enough that maybe next year she won't automatically expect things to go wrong.

"She deserves this," I murmur quietly.

Mira answers immediately, without hesitation.

"She does."

Simple. Certain. Unquestionable.

The room behind us hums softly with quiet movement and anticipation. Staff members drift carefully through the penthouse making final adjustments while guests arrive in small waves, laughter hushed instinctively so nobody ruins the surprise too early.

Near the kitchen, some of the dancers are whispering over the turtle decorations.

"There are so many of them," one of them mutters.

"That one has sunglasses," another says.

"That one's holding a margarita."

I smile involuntarily.

Good.

That's exactly the reaction Zoey would've had.

Near the far end of the room, Celine stands elegant and poised as always, one hand wrapped around a glass while her gaze moves slowly across the decorations. For a second, our eyes meet across the room.

She takes in the lights. The colors. The absurd amount of hidden turtles. Then gives me one small nod. Approval. Pride.

Something strangely warm settles in my chest at the sight of it.

Then, my gaze catches on two figures near the center of the room. And suddenly everything inside me stills. Zoey's parents. They stand close together, quietly taking everything in. Her mother's gaze drifts slowly across the decorations with obvious emotion softening her features, lingering on little details the same way Zoey's always does. Her father is looking at the tables of food with clear amusement, smiling slightly every time he notices another turtle hidden somewhere ridiculous.

I swallow hard. Because suddenly this part feels real in an entirely different way. Not just the surprise. Not just the party. Them. Meeting them. Standing here as the girl their daughter loves. My chest tightens instantly.

Mira nudges my arm lightly without even looking at me. "You're spiraling again."

"I'm not spiraling."

"You are absolutely spiraling."

I exhale sharply. "They're her parents."

"Yes."

"They raised her."

"Yes, Rumi."

"They're here."

That finally makes Mira glance over at me properly, her expression softening almost imperceptibly.

"What if they don't..."

"They already like you. Her Dad literally chose to hug you instead of shaking your hand."

I blink at her immediately. "Maybe that's more common in America."

"Rumi." Mira gestures vaguely toward my entire existence. "You literally glow every time Zoey walks into a room."

"That doesn't mean..."

"They raised her," Mira interrupts calmly. "Which means they already know exactly what kind of person their daughter loves."

That lands harder than I expect.

Before I can respond, Zoey's mother suddenly looks over and catches me staring.

For one terrifying second, panic shoots through me. Then she smiles. Warm. Immediate. Kind in that same overwhelming way Zoey smiles when she's genuinely happy.

And suddenly I can breathe again.

"Oh no," Mira murmurs beside me.

"What?"

"You just got emotionally adopted."

I make a strangled noise.

Before I can recover, my phone buzzes and I check it immediately.

"They're five minutes out."

Everything changes instantly.

The room stills for half a heartbeat before everyone moves at once.

Music cuts. Lights dim low. Conversations drop into whispers before fading entirely. People move quickly into position around the penthouse, ducking behind walls, furniture, counters, hidden but still close enough to explode out when the moment comes.

The energy in the room sharpens immediately into anticipation so thick it almost feels tangible. My heartbeat spikes hard enough that I physically feel it in my throat.

Mira steps closer beside me, solid and steady and grounding. "Positions."

I nod. Together we move near the main entrance, just off to the side where Zoey will see us immediately without us ruining the initial surprise too soon.

My hands feel strange. Not shaky. Just hyperaware. Like my whole body knows something important is about to happen. I flex my fingers once. Then again. Pink flickers faintly beneath my skin. I force myself to steady. Now is not the time to lose composure. Now I need to be calm. For her.

The elevator dings softly somewhere down the hall.

Every person in the room goes completely still.

Footsteps. Muffled voices.

Then Bobby's voice drifts closer, perfectly casual.

"...I'm just saying schedules are tight right now, we don't really have room to keep pushing things back, "

Zoey groans loudly enough for everyone inside the penthouse to hear.

"I still think this could've waited until tomorrow."

The sound of her voice hits me like sunlight straight to the chest.

Closer now. Warm. Familiar. Completely unaware. Keys jingle. The lock clicks. The front door opens. The penthouse beyond it is completely dark.

Zoey steps inside first, visible only in silhouette against the brighter hallway light behind her. She pauses almost immediately.

"…Why are the lights off?"

Bobby steps in behind her smoothly. "Probably a power thing. I'll check. "

The door shuts. Silence. One heartbeat. Two.

Then, the lights explode on all at once.

Bright. Golden. Alive.

"SURPRISE!"

The room erupts instantly.

Cheers. Laughter. Music surging back on. Voices overlapping.

And Zoey, Zoey freezes completely. Utterly. Like her brain simply stops processing for a second under the sheer force of everything hitting her at once. Her eyes go impossibly wide. Her mouth parts slightly. She just stands there staring while the room glows around her, colors and lights and people and warmth everywhere she looks.

I don't move. I can't. Because I'm watching the exact moment realization hits her. The understanding. This is for her. All of it. Every single detail. Her hands lift slightly toward her chest like she physically doesn't know what to do with herself.

"…What?" she breathes faintly.

Her gaze moves slowly through the room now, taking in everything piece by piece.

The decorations. The food. The turtles. The cake. The people.

Then, she sees me and everything else disappears.

Her eyes lock onto mine instantly, emotion crashing across her face so openly it almost knocks the breath out of me.

"…Rumi?" she whispers.

My chest aches so badly it feels unbearable.

I step toward her slowly, carefully, like the moment itself is fragile enough to break if I move too fast.

"Hi," I say softly.

Something in her expression crumples immediately.

"You, " Her voice catches hard. "You did this?"

I smile helplessly. "We did."

Mira steps up beside me, clearly pleased with herself despite her composure. "Happy birthday, Zoey."

That's it. That's the final thing that breaks her. Her face folds inward with emotion so suddenly and overwhelmingly full that tears spill over before she can stop them.

"Oh my god, "

A hand flies to her mouth.

Then she moves. Fast. Straight toward me. She crashes into me so hard I stumble backward half a step, arms wrapping tightly around my waist while she buries her face against my shoulder like she needs something solid to hold onto. I catch her instantly, pulling her close with one arm around her back while my other hand cradles the back of her head automatically.

"I... This... What?" she tries between shaky laughs and tears.

"It's okay," I murmur softly into her hair. "It's yours."

She clutches tighter.

"All of it," I whisper. "Everything's for you."

She pulls back just enough to look at me, tears streaking freely down her cheeks now while her smile shakes so hard it almost hurts to see.

"Rumi," she breathes. "This is everything."

Gold blooms brightly beneath my skin without restraint.

"I wanted it to be."

She laughs shakily through tears, overwhelmed all over again. "No one's ever..." And then she stops.

I see it immediately. That old expectation. That instinctive fear that something good won't stay good long enough to trust it. I reach up carefully, brushing my thumb beneath her eye to catch another tear.

"Nothing's going wrong," I tell her quietly. "Not today."

She looks at me. Really looks. And slowly, something inside her settles. Not completely. Not all at once.

But enough.

Then a soft voice speaks from somewhere behind us.

"Zoey?"

She freezes instantly. Slowly she turns. And sees them. Her breath catches so sharply I physically feel it against me.

"…Mom?"

And then she's moving again. Faster this time. Almost running. Her parents meet her halfway just in time for Zoey to crash into them completely, arms wrapping tight around both of them while laughter and tears blur together all over again.

"You came," she says breathlessly.

"Of course we came," her mother says softly, brushing her hair back immediately. "Honey, we wouldn't miss this."

Her father laughs quietly while holding her close. "Especially after Rumi practically begged us."

I make a choking noise somewhere behind them.

Zoey whips around immediately.

"You what?"

Mira fully abandons me. "Oh, she absolutely did."

"I did not beg."

"You emotionally begged."

"I was polite!"

"You sent three follow up emails."

"They mattered!"

Zoey stares at me with tears still in her eyes and the biggest smile I've ever seen on her face.

Then she starts laughing. Really laughing. Bright and full and overwhelmed.

And God.

That alone makes every second worth it.

She reaches for me immediately again, tugging me forward until I'm standing beside her and her parents.

"This is Rumi," she says, voice soft and proud and emotional all at once. "My girlfriend."

The words hit me right in the chest.

Simple.

Certain.

Mine.

Her mother's expression warms instantly. "Yes, she introduced herself when we first arrived, but not in this exact context. We've heard so much about you."

"All good things, I hope," I manage weakly.

Zoey's dad grins. "Based on the decorations alone, I'd say you're doing pretty well."

Relief crashes through me so hard it almost makes me dizzy. Zoey notices instantly. Of course she does. Her fingers slide into mine, squeezing gently. And I squeeze back automatically. Always.

The party unfolds around us after that in soft waves of laughter and warmth and noise.

Music fills the penthouse again while people move easily between conversations and food and dancing. Zoey gets passed from person to person all night, overwhelmed every single time someone hugs her or tells her happy birthday or points out another tiny detail hidden somewhere in the decorations.

At one point she discovers a turtle figurine hidden inside the drink station and gasps loud enough to interrupt three conversations. At another she physically tears up over the cake. Multiple times she comes back to me in the middle of conversations just to kiss me quickly like she needs reassurance I'm still real.

And every single time she looks at me, I see it settling deeper. The realization. This is hers. This love. This family. This life.

And when she laughs, really laughs, bright and unguarded and full enough to echo through the entire penthouse,

It feels like every difficult thing we survived to get here was worth it.

The party winds down slowly, not with a clean ending or a sudden quiet, but in soft layers that peel themselves away from the night one at a time. The music lowers first, shifting from bright, danceable pop into something warmer and gentler, the beat soft enough that it feels more like a pulse beneath the room than the center of it. Then the laughter changes, no longer bursting loudly from every corner but lingering in small pockets around the penthouse, tucked near the food table, beside the windows, around the couch where a few of the staff are still joking about the ridiculous number of hidden turtles. The smell of cake and flowers and fried food hangs in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of spilled soda and the clean citrus candle Mira lit near the kitchen once the crowd started thinning. Decorations still glow everywhere, teal, yellow, gold, tiny fairy lights reflected in the dark glass of the windows, and for once, I don't feel any urge to clean it up. I don't want to erase proof that tonight happened.

Zoey is still glowing.

I don't think there's another word for it. Not literally, not the way I do, with gold shimmering across my skin whenever she gets too close or smiles at me in a way that makes my heart forget its job. But there is something luminous about her anyway. She moves through the penthouse like someone suspended between disbelief and joy, still a little stunned each time another person hugs her goodbye or tells her happy birthday, still smiling like she's afraid if she stops too quickly the whole thing might disappear. Her laughter comes easier now than it did when she first walked in. Fuller. Less overwhelmed. More real. Her shoulders have finally dropped from around her ears, and I can see the exact moment she stops waiting for the hidden flaw, the sudden disaster, the thing that will turn the memory into something complicated.

Because nothing went wrong. Nothing has.

Every time I catch her eye, and I do constantly, because she keeps looking for me across the room like she wants to make sure I'm still there, she gives me this look that feels like a question she doesn't have to say out loud. Is this real? Is this mine? Did you really do all of this for me? And every time, I answer the only way I can. A soft smile. A steady gaze. My hand held out whenever she drifts close enough to take it.

Yes. It's real. It's yours. It always should have been.

Her parents stay near her for most of the night, not hovering and not crowding her, just present in this easy, grounding way that feels like it's been waiting all evening to settle into place. Her mother laughs at every story Zoey tells like she's hearing music she missed, and her father keeps finding tiny details in the decorations that make him shake his head with this soft, amused expression that reminds me so much of Zoey it almost hurts. At one point, he finds the turtle with sunglasses tucked behind one of the flower arrangements and holds it up with raised eyebrows.

"Is this one important?" he asks.

Zoey gasps like he has uncovered a sacred artifact. "That is Turtle Tom."

I blink. "You named him?"

"I just did."

Her father nods solemnly, setting the turtle back into place. "My apologies to Turtle Tom."

Zoey beams, and her mother looks across at me, smiling in this quiet, grateful way that doesn't need any words attached to it. Something in my chest loosens at the sight, something I didn't realize I'd been holding tight since the first moment they stepped through the door. They don't look at me like an intrusion. They don't look at me like a surprise they're trying to decide whether to accept. They look at me like I am already part of the shape of Zoey's happiness, and I don't know how to hold that without feeling like it might spill out of me.

Later, Zoey pulls me into conversation after conversation without hesitation, her hand finding mine every few minutes as if the contact is as natural to her as breathing. She introduces me to people who already know me and reintroduces me to people who absolutely do not need reintroducing, but she does it anyway because tonight she wants everyone to understand us. To see it. To know where I stand in her life.

"This was her," she says at one point, tugging me forward by the hand when one of the stylists compliments the decorations. Her voice is bright and proud, her eyes still shiny from all the emotion she's been pretending not to keep feeling. "Okay, technically Mira too, but mostly her."

"Equal contribution," Mira calls from across the room without even looking up from the plate of cake she is very seriously guarding.

Zoey ignores her completely. "She did all the details. The flowers, the turtles, the food, the colors, everything. This is all her brain."

"It was not all my brain," I protest, laughing softly as heat rises in my face. "Mira handled logistics. Bobby survived the kidnapping mission. Your parents flew across an ocean. Everyone helped."

Zoey turns toward me, her smile gentling. "But you made it feel like me."

The words land so softly and so directly that for a second I forget how to answer.

Gold warms across my wrist.

Zoey notices instantly, because of course she does. Her eyes flicker down, then back up to mine, and her smile shifts into something smaller, more private, more impossibly tender.

"See?" she murmurs. "That's how I know I'm right."

Before I can respond, she leans in and kisses my cheek in front of everyone, quick and sweet and completely natural, like loving me openly is the easiest thing in the world. Which, somehow, now, it is.

Mira watches from a few feet away, her expression caught somewhere between fond and deeply unsurprised. "You two are going to make someone cry again," she says.

Zoey points at herself. "It'll be me."

"Obviously."

By the time the last wave of guests begins to leave, the energy in the penthouse has shifted into something quieter, softer, the kind of calm that settles in after something good rather than something draining. Celine is one of the last to say goodbye, embracing Zoey with grace and surprising warmth before pulling back to look at her properly.

"You let yourself enjoy it," Celine says quietly.

Zoey blinks, then smiles. "I think I did."

"Good." Celine's gaze flickers briefly to me and Mira before returning to Zoey. "Well done."

It sounds simple, but it means more than that. Zoey hears it too. I can tell by the way her expression softens before she nods.

Bobby lingers near the door long enough to make sure nothing has caught fire, collapsed, or emotionally detonated beyond repair. He claps Zoey gently on the shoulder as he passes, his smile tired but proud.

"For the record," he says, "you are very difficult to kidnap for your own good."

Zoey lifts her chin. "I prefer the term emotionally attached."

"You tried to get out of the car at a red light."

"I saw a bakery."

"You said you sensed Rumi sadness."

"I stand by that. And what better way to cheer her up than to bring home her favorite pastry?"

I press my lips together to keep from laughing while Bobby points at me like I personally caused the problem.

"You're encouraging this."

"I am," I admit.

"At least you're honest."

When he finally leaves with a wave, Zoey's parents are the last remaining guests. Of course they are. The penthouse feels strangely more intimate once it's just them, us, and Mira lingering near the kitchen under the warm glow of the remaining lights. Zoey walks them toward the door, but the goodbye stretches because none of them seem ready for it to end. Her mother brushes a piece of hair behind Zoey's ear, her father squeezes her shoulder, and their voices lower into that softer register families use when the rest of the world has faded away.

I step back, intending to give them space, but Zoey's mother looks over her shoulder before I can get far.

"Rumi?" she says gently. "Could we steal you for a minute?"

My heart does something completely unhelpful.

Zoey turns toward me immediately, eyes widening a little, like she wants to make sure I'm okay. I smile at her before she can worry too much.

"Yeah," I say, though my voice comes out softer than I expect. "Of course."

Zoey's fingers brush mine as I pass her, a tiny touch, there and gone, but it steadies me more than I think she realizes. Mira catches my eye from the kitchen and gives me a small nod that says breathe without her having to mouth it.

Zoey's parents guide me a few steps away toward the quieter side of the living room, near the windows where the city spreads below us in glittering lines of traffic and light. For one terrifying second, I don't know what to do with my hands. Fold them? Let them hang? Bow again? Say something first? My patterns shimmer faintly along my wrist, pink and purple threaded with nervous iridescence, and I press my fingers lightly against my palm to steady myself.

Zoey's mother notices. Of course she does. But she doesn't stare. She just smiles.

"I wanted to thank you," she says.

I blink. "You don't have to, "

"We do," Zoey's father says, gentle but firm. "Tonight meant a lot to her."

My throat tightens. "She deserved it."

"She did," her mother agrees immediately. "She always did. But Zoey has a habit of making peace with less than she wants if she thinks wanting more will inconvenience people."

That is so painfully true that I don't know how to answer.

Her father exhales softly, looking back across the room where Zoey is talking quietly with Mira, still stealing glances at us every few seconds. "She used to get so excited about birthdays when she was little. Decorations, themes, the cake, all of it. She'd make lists weeks ahead of time."

I smile faintly. "She still makes lists."

"Oh, I know." Her mother laughs softly. "She gets that from me."

"Does she get the stubbornness from both of you?" I ask before I can stop myself.

There is one breath of silence. Then both of them laugh. The sound loosens something in me.

Her father points lightly at me. "Careful. You're going to fit in too well with the family."

My face warms, and gold flashes immediately beneath my skin. Zoey's mother sees it and her expression softens so much I almost have to look away.

"She told us about your patterns," she says carefully. "Not everything. Only what was hers to say. We know there's things we can't know and have accepted that. She said they show what you feel sometimes."

I go still. Not with fear. Just awareness.

"She told you?"

"She said they were like tattoos," her father adds easily, giving me a look that tells me he understands there is more beneath the surface, and also that he will not ask for what he has no right to know. "Beautiful ones."

The relief that moves through me is quiet but enormous.

"They can be… inconvenient," I admit.

Her mother looks down at the faint gold still glowing near my wrist. "They seem honest."

That hits so unexpectedly deep that I have to take a breath before answering.

"They are," I say. "Especially around her."

Her mother's eyes warm.

Her father's voice turns a little quieter. "You love her."

It isn't a question. Still, I answer it like one.

"I do." My voice comes out steady, which surprises me. "More than I know how to explain sometimes."

Zoey's parents exchange a glance, and something unspoken passes between them. Not doubt. Not concern. Something closer to relief.

Her mother steps a little closer. "Rumi, we know our daughter. We know when she's performing happiness and when she's actually living inside it." Her eyes shine faintly, but her smile stays steady. "Tonight, she wasn't performing. And when she speaks of you with us, she's not performing then either."

My chest tightens.

"No," I whisper. "She wasn't."

"And with you," her father adds, "she looks… safe."

Safe.

The word almost undoes me. Because that is all I have ever wanted to be for her. Not perfect. Not impressive. Not worthy in some grand, impossible way. Just safe.

"I want her to be," I say quietly. "I know her life is complicated. I know mine is too. I know everything about us is… not simple. But I love her. I respect her. I want to make her happy, and when I can't make things easy, I still want to be someone she can come home to."

Her mother presses one hand to her chest, her expression trembling with emotion now.

"That's all we could ever ask."

Her father steps forward then and places a hand gently on my shoulder. "You have our blessing, Rumi."

For a second, I genuinely can't speak. The room blurs slightly around the edges, not because I'm crying exactly, but because something deep inside me is trying very hard not to. Their blessing. Their trust. Given so easily. Given like I am not something to be questioned.

My patterns flare gold, brighter this time, warm and unmistakable along my arms.

Zoey's mother laughs softly through her own tears. "Well. That answers that."

I let out a shaky laugh too, one hand coming up to cover my face for a second. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," she says immediately. "It's beautiful."

I look toward Zoey without meaning to.

She's watching us from across the room, her expression soft and curious and just a little emotional, like she already knows something important is happening even if she can't hear it.

"I'm going to take care of her," I say, looking back at her parents. "Not because I think she needs someone to manage her or protect her from life. She's one of the strongest people I know. But because she deserves to be cared for. Every day. Even on the days she thinks she doesn't need it."

Her father nods slowly, his eyes shining now too. "That sounds like our girl."

Her mother reaches for my hand, squeezing it gently. "Then take care of each other."

I nod, because that I understand completely.

"We will."

When we return to Zoey a moment later, she looks between us immediately.

"What happened?" she asks, suspicion and emotion tangled together in her voice. "Why do all three of you look like you're hiding a Hallmark movie from me?"

Her father clears his throat. "We were discussing Turtle Tom."

Zoey narrows her eyes. "That is absolutely not true."

Her mother smiles innocently. "He made a strong impression."

Zoey looks at me. I try to look normal. I fail immediately because my patterns are still glowing gold.

Zoey's face softens.

"Oh," she whispers.

I reach for her hand. She takes it instantly.

Her parents say goodbye a few minutes later, though it takes three hugs, two promises to call, and one final emotional moment where Zoey's mother cups her face and tells her again how loved she is. When the door finally closes behind them, Zoey stays there for a second with her hand still resting against it, quiet and full.

Mira joins me near the kitchen, leaning lightly against the counter as we both pretend not to watch while absolutely watching.

"She's happy," Mira says quietly.

I nod. "She is."

Mira glances at me. "You did that."

"We did that."

This time, Mira doesn't argue, but her smile says she knows exactly how much of tonight came from the parts of me that love Zoey too much to be casual about it.

Zoey eventually turns back toward us, her expression soft in a way that feels different from earlier. Not overwhelmed now. Not stunned. Settled. Full. Like joy has finally stopped crashing over her in waves and started becoming something she can hold.

"Hey," she says softly.

"Hey," I echo.

Mira lifts one hand. "Birthday girl."

Zoey huffs a quiet laugh. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Absolutely not."

Zoey shakes her head, still smiling, and then walks straight to me. No hesitation. No pause. She closes the distance and wraps her arms around my waist, pulling herself against me with a soft sigh as her face tucks into my shoulder. This hug is different from the one she gave me when she first walked in. That one had been desperate with shock, overwhelmed with joy. This one is calmer. Anchored. Like she isn't afraid the night will vanish if she loosens her grip.

I hold her easily, one hand sliding up her back, the other settling at her waist.

For a while, nobody says anything. Not me. Not Zoey. Not even Mira.

And somehow, the silence says enough.

We don't clean up right away. Mira insists on minimal damage control, which apparently means saving anything perishable, moving drinks away from expensive furniture, and rescuing the cake from Zoey's continued emotional staring. Everything else stays. The streamers. The balloons. The lights. The confetti embedded in places that may never be fully recovered. The turtles hidden in corners like tiny witnesses.

It feels wrong to erase it too quickly. Wrong to pretend it didn't happen. So, we leave the room bright and messy and full of proof.

Eventually, we drift through the remains of the party in that slow, aimless way people do after something meaningful. Zoey steals bites of leftover cake with a fork directly from a plate Mira swears she was saving. Mira threatens her without any real heat. I sip a drink that has long since gone watered down from melted ice while Zoey keeps leaning into me between bites like she's checking that I'm still there.

At some point, she ends up half in my lap on the couch, legs thrown across mine, head resting against my shoulder while she absently plays with the edge of my sleeve. Mira sits nearby with one leg tucked beneath her, watching us over the rim of her cup with quiet amusement and something softer beneath it.

It's comfortable. Easy. The kind of quiet that doesn't feel like anything is missing.

Eventually, Zoey speaks.

"…Can I say something?"

My hand stills where it has been tracing slow circles along her arm.

"Always."

She shifts slightly, just enough to tilt her face up toward mine. Her expression is open in a way that tells me this matters, even before she says anything else.

"I didn't tell you the full reason," she says quietly.

I don't ask what she means. I already know. Her birthday.

I nod gently. "Okay."

She takes a small breath, her fingers tightening lightly in my sleeve. "They weren't always bad. Not at first. When I was little, they were normal, I think. Cake, presents, my parents trying really hard. I had this one birthday where my dad made this terrible lopsided turtle cake because I was obsessed with them, and I cried because I thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world."

Her smile trembles faintly.

"My mom still has pictures."

Mira's expression softens. "I need to see those."

Zoey points weakly at her. "No, you do not."

"I absolutely do."

"We'll negotiate."

I smile and brush my thumb along Zoey's shoulder.

She exhales, and her voice dips quieter. "But as I got older, things kept going wrong. Schedules changed. Something got canceled. People couldn't come. I'd plan things and then feel stupid for planning them because they never worked out the way I thought they would." She looks down at her hands. "And after a while, it just felt easier not to expect anything. If I didn't build it up, I couldn't be disappointed when it fell apart."

My chest aches, not sharply, but heavily. Understanding settles there, warm and sad and fiercely protective.

"And then when we got busy," she continues, glancing briefly toward Mira, "it was easier to skip it. Focus on everything else. Performances, schedules, holidays for other people. Your birthdays." Her mouth curves into a small, self conscious smile. "But I liked doing things for you guys. I still did. Because I knew what it felt like when something did go right, and I wanted you to have that. Even if I didn't."

Something inside me settles into certainty.

I reach up and brush my fingers gently along her cheek, guiding her eyes back to mine.

"Zoey," I say quietly.

She blinks.

"You don't have to earn that."

Her brows draw together. "Earn what?"

"Being celebrated," I tell her. "Being the center of something good. Being loved like that. You don't have to make everyone else happy first before you're allowed to receive it."

Her breath catches.

Mira leans forward slightly, voice steady and warm. "You never did."

Zoey looks between us, and for a second I can see the instinct to deflect, to make a joke, to brush it off before it gets too tender. But then her gaze drifts around the room, over the decorations still hanging across the walls, the teal and yellow balloons, the flowers, the half eaten cake, the ridiculous little turtle peeking out from the shelf.

Evidence. Proof.

Her shoulders drop.

"…Today didn't go wrong," she says quietly.

I smile. "No. It didn't."

She lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Nothing went wrong."

Mira raises a brow. "Well, there was the issue with the hellium tank."

"That doesn't count."

"I lost a fight with streamers," I add.

Zoey huffs. "Also doesn't count."

"There is confetti in the toaster," Mira says.

Zoey pauses.

Then shrugs. "Festive toast."

I laugh, and Mira stares at her like she is debating whether love is worth this level of nonsense.

Then Mira leans back with a sigh. "Fine. Nothing went wrong."

Zoey looks back at me, really looks, and her eyes are softer now. Clearer.

"And it won't," I say gently but firmly. "Not like that. Not anymore."

She searches my face as if looking for doubt.

She won't find any.

"Your birthdays don't belong to disappointment," I continue. "They don't belong to things falling apart or people forgetting or you pretending it doesn't matter."

Mira nods once. "They belong to us now."

Zoey's breath catches again, deeper this time, emotion rising in her expression softer than before, less overwhelming and somehow more meaningful.

"…You're serious."

"Completely," I say.

"Every year," Mira adds.

"Even if we're on tour," I continue.

"Especially if we're on tour," Mira says.

"Even if we have to celebrate in a hotel room with convenience store cake," I add.

Zoey's lips wobble. "That sounds kind of perfect, actually."

"Then we'll do that too."

Her eyes brighten again, but this time the tears don't spill over. They just stay there, shining.

"Okay," she whispers.

Okay.

It lands like something important. Something accepted. She shifts closer again, tucking herself fully against me, her head settling beneath my chin like it belongs there.

It does.

My arms wrap around her automatically, holding her close and steady. This time, when she relaxes into me, there's no tension underneath it. No waiting. No bracing for the other shoe to drop.

Just peace.

Later, when the penthouse has finally gone almost completely quiet, when Mira has done one final scan for melting desserts and potential disasters before retreating toward her room with a pointed, "Don't stay up too late," Zoey and I make our way back to the bedroom.

She's quieter now. Not withdrawn. Just soft. Full in a way that doesn't need to be loud anymore.

We change slowly, moving around each other in the comfortable rhythm we've built, brushing past each other in the dim room, exchanging small touches without needing to name them. Her fingers skim my wrist when she passes me. My hand finds the small of her back when I move around her. She steals one of my shirts without asking, and I pretend not to notice because she looks too happy in it.

By the time we settle into bed, she's already curled into me again, one leg thrown over mine, her arm draped across my waist like she is claiming her place there without question. I pull the blankets around us, tucking them gently over her shoulder before letting my hand settle against her back.

For a while, we just lie there. Breathing. Existing. Letting the dark hold us gently.

Then,

"Rumi?"

Her voice is soft. Sleepy. But awake.

"Mm?"

She shifts slightly, tilting her face up toward mine in the dim light.

"…Thank you."

The words are simple, but they carry everything. The party. The effort. Her parents. The blessing she doesn't know about yet. The love. Today.

Something warm spreads through my chest, steady and deep and impossibly soft. I brush my fingers gently through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear.

"You don't have to thank me for loving you," I whisper.

Her expression changes. Softens even more. Like something inside her finally lets go.

"I know," she murmurs. Then she smiles, small and sleepy and certain. "I love you too."

Gold blooms across my skin in the dark, bright and unrestrained.

I don't hide it. Not anymore.

"Good," I whisper, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

She hums, already drifting, her body relaxing fully against mine as sleep begins to pull her under.

I hold her a little closer. Just because I can. Just because she's here. Just because this is real.

All of it. And this time, it stays.