I lean back against the door, balloons brushing my hair, and close my eyes for a beat. My chest aches like it’s splitting in two, because this is—fuck. This is more than I’ve ever let myself want.
“Hi…”
Her voice is soft and tentative, and it cuts straight through the ache in my chest.
I look up, and she’s standing in the dining room doorway, half-lit by the warm glow from inside, wrapped in a satin robe. Her hands are knotted in the sash like she’s not sure how this will land. Shining blue eyes blink at me, wide and a little nervous, like she just handed me her heart and is waiting to see if I’ll drop it.
Something in me splinters, and I know I’m looking at my forever.
I cross the room in three strides and drag her into my arms, crushing her against me. Balloons brush past my shoulders, the photos knocking against each other like applause, but all I feel is her—soft and warm, and solid. Mine. My whole world.
“Jesus, Lu,” I rasp, burying my face in her hair. The words come broken. “Nobody’s ever… fuck, this is—” My throat closes. I can’t finish.
Her arms cinch around my neck, fierce for someone so small. She presses her face into the side of mine, her whisper hot against my skin. “Happy birthday.”
I squeeze her tighter, fearing that if I let go for even a second, the moment might vanish. My chest is heaving, eyes burning, but for the first time in years, it isn’t from anger or frustration, it’s from being seen. From being chosen.
This isn’t a prank, it isn’t pity. It’s her.
And I know, right here in this ridiculous sea of balloons, that I’ll never let her go even if the whole damn world tries to make me.
She eases back first, just enough to brush her thumb under my eye. “There’s more,” she says softly, and takes my hand, leading me toward the kitchen.
I follow, dazed, the balloons rustling overhead like they’re alive.
On the counter sits a cake, lopsided but iced in a shade of pink that could blind a man. The exact same shade as that damn flamingo in my pool. Across the top, messy letters declare:Lesson Twelve: Celebrate anyway.
A laugh tears out of me, broken around the edges. “You made me a cake?”
Her grin wobbles, proud and shy all at once. “Usually I order them, but yeah, I made this one. Betty supervised the oven so I didn’t burn the house down.”
I shake my head, still laughing, still choking on it. The sight of it—the ridiculous icing, the stupidly sweet message—hits me harder than any candlelit dinner ever could. It’s not about perfect. It’s about her wanting me to feel celebrated.
She nudges a box into my hands next, and I rip the paper to find a pair of running shoes.
I arch a brow. “Really?”
“For sunrise runs,” she says, chin tilting like she’s daring me to argue. “No excuses now.”
The laugh that breaks out of me this time is lighter, easier. “You’re relentless.”
“Efficient.”
“Bossy.”
“You secretly love it.”
Before I can answer, she presses a smaller box into my hands. It’s a deck of cards, plain and unassuming. My brows pull tight as I slide it open, expecting… I don’t even know what.
Then I freeze.
Every single card has something written across the front in her looping scrawl. I shuffle through them, and my chest caves.
You drew the primary assist in overtime against Chicago when everyone said you weren’t ready for the big minutes.
You killed off that five-on-three in St. Louis like your life depended on it.
You kept your cool when Dallas targeted you in your rookie year and made them regret it with two goals in the same game.
