"Months?" I ask, glancing at Faugh, who has the decency to look slightly embarrassed.
"He showed us a photograph of your art," the second figure says, stepping forward. This one is a Minotaur, towering and broad, with curved horns and kind brown eyes. "We were very impressed. I am Tovan."
The third member of their group is a Dragonborn woman, sleek and intimidating, with iridescent copper scales and sharp golden eyes. "Kesara," she says, offering me a clawed hand to shake. "Faugh mentioned you enjoy wine. I brought three bottles."
"I like you already," I say, shaking her hand carefully. "Come in, please. There is so much food."
What follows is one of the most surreal and wonderful evenings of my entire life.
My tiny human friends and Faugh's enormous non-human friends mix with surprising ease, fueled by truly excellent wine and the sheer novelty of the situation. Sienna ends up in an animated conversation with Gralt about tattoo artistry, while Dev and Tovan bond over their shared love of obscure fantasy novels. Kesara and Maya discover a mutual obsession with competitive cooking shows and spend twenty minutes passionately debating the merits of various celebrity chefs.
I move through the room, refilling glasses and making sure everyone has enough to eat, and I catch Faugh watching me from across the space with an expression of pure contentment.
Jordan corners me by the wine bottles, grinning. "Okay," he says quietly. "I was skeptical when you told me you were dating a seven-foot Orc, but Chantel, he is gone for you. Like, completely obsessed. It's actually kind of adorable."
"He reorganized my entire art studio by color spectrum," I admit, letting out a slightly breathless laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. "Like, he literally spent an entire Saturdayafternoon sorting through every single tube of paint, every marker, every colored pencil, and arranged them in perfect rainbow order. He even labeled the shelves."
"That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," Jordan says, his eyes widening with genuine awe.
"Right?" I say, throwing my hands up emphatically. "Like, most people get flowers or jewelry, and I get my creative chaos organized into a color-coded paradise. And honestly? It kind of made me want to cry. In a good way. He remembered how frustrated I always am when I can't find the right shade of cerulean because it's buried under like, seventeen other blues."
At some point, Priya discovers the golden hair clip and demands the full story, which leads to me tearfully recounting the entire proposal while half-drunk on wine, which leads to Sienna loudly announcing that we need to have an engagement party, which leads to Faugh calmly stating that we are not technically engaged by human standards because he did not provide a ring.
"Rings are outdated and patriarchal!" Sienna declares, slightly unsteadily, gesturing dramatically with her wine glass in a way that makes me genuinely concerned about the upholstery. "The clip is better! It's practical! You can actually use it to hold your hair up, which is something you cannot do with a diamond! I'm being completely serious right now!"
"It is extremely practical," Faugh agrees with absolute sincerity, his deep voice cutting through the room like he's delivering a dissertation on clip-based adornment systems. "I selected it specifically for its functionality. The tensile strength is superior to most conventional hair retention devices, and the weight distribution allows for extended wear without causing discomfort or follicle damage."
Jordan nearly spits out his drink.
"Can I try it on?" Priya asks eagerly, her eyes gleaming with the kind of mischief that only comes from three glasses of wine and the presence of something shiny and symbolically significant.
"Absolutely not," Faugh and I say simultaneously, our voices overlapping in a way that surprises us both with its synchronization. The entire room dissolves into delighted, cackling laughter at our unified protectiveness, and I feel my cheeks flush hot as I realize how perfectly in sync we've become, how naturally the refusal sprang from both our lips as though we share a single mind when it comes to that small, precious golden clip.
As the evening winds down and people start to trickle out, I stand by the door with Faugh, hugging everyone goodbye and accepting their warm congratulations and promises to do this again soon.
Gralt is the last to leave, and he pulls Faugh into a brief, back-slapping hug before turning to me. "You have made him very happy," he says quietly. "We have known Faugh for many years, and we have never seen him like this. Thank you."
I feel my throat tighten with emotion. "He makes me happy too," I manage to say. "Really, really happy."
Gralt nods, satisfied, and heads down the hallway.
I close the door and turn to survey the aftermath. The apartment is a disaster zone, plates and glasses scattered across every surface, napkins crumpled on the coffee table, and at least three wine bottles knocked over.
"I will begin cleaning," Faugh says immediately, already moving toward the kitchen.
"Nope," I say firmly, catching his hand and pulling him back. "Absolutely not. We are leaving this until tomorrow."
He looks physically pained. "Chantel, there is brie hardening on the?—"
"Tomorrow," I repeat, tugging him toward the couch. "Come here."
He allows himself to be pulled down onto the couch, and I curl up against his side, tucking myself into the warm space between his arm and his ribs. He wraps his arm around me automatically, and I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat.
"That was perfect," I murmur against the solid warmth of his chest, my voice soft and drowsy. "Tonight was absolutely perfect. Like, genuinely, I didn't think it would go that well, but everyone just clicked, you know? Your friends, my friends, all the chaos and the noise and the terrible jokes. It was exactly what I needed."
"Your friends are very loud," Faugh observes, his deep voice rumbling through his chest and into my ear. There is a note of amusement there, though, a quiet warmth that softens the statement into something almost affectionate. "They laughed considerably. One of them spilled wine on my carpet."
I lift my head slightly to look up at him, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "In my defense, that was mostly on you for having a cream-colored carpet when you know exactly what kind of chaos you're inviting into this apartment. Also, your friends are absolutely terrifying. Did you see the way Gralt was looking at people? I'm pretty sure he communicates exclusively through meaningful glances and the implication of violence."
