[Cassian’s POV]

Cleo throws Maggie a four-month birthday party that’s excessive even by her standards.

The apartment has been transformed into a wonderland of celebration, every surface adorned with decorations that sparkle and flutter. Pink streamers cascade from the ceiling like waterfalls of silk, balloons cluster in corners like bouquets of joy, and a banner proclaiming “Happy 4 Months Maggie!” stretches across the living room in glittering letters. The effect is overwhelming, beautiful, and completely absurd for a baby who won’t remember any of it.

“She’s four months old,” I point out, surveying the chaos with a mixture of amusement and awe. “She won’t remember any of this.”

“It’s not for her,” Cleo retorts, adjusting a balloon that’s drifted slightly out of position. Her eyes are bright with satisfaction, the look of an artist admiring her completed masterpiece. “It’s for us. We survived. We deserve cake.”

She has a point. The past year has been a gauntlet of crises and revelations and battles that sometimes felt unwinnable. There were moments—dark, desperate moments—when I wasn’t sure we’d make it through. When the weight of everything seemed too heavy to bear. Celebrating the fact that we made it through—that Maggie is here, healthy and happy and surrounded by people who love her—seems entirely appropriate. More than appropriate. Necessary.

The guest list is small but meaningful. Sophie’s coworkers, who sent flowers when Maggie was born and asked no intrusive questions about our family structure. A few of Adrian’s colleagues from the consulting firm, people who’ve seen him rebuild his career from the ashes of Lisette’s sabotage. The friends who stood by us through everything, who didn’t blink at our unconventional arrangement, who showed up with casseroles and babysitting offers and unwavering support.

Maggie presides over the festivities from her bouncer, accepting admiration with the graciousness of tiny royalty. The afternoon sun streams through the windows, catching the silver stars on her onesie and making them sparkle. She’s wearing a dress Cleo bought her—pink, frilly, utterly impractical—and seems to enjoy the attention, her eyes tracking from face to face as people approach to coo over her. Each new admirer receives a gummy smile or a wave of tiny fists, as if she’s blessing her subjects one by one.

“She’s beautiful,” someone tells me. “She has her mother’s nose.”

“And her father’s eyes,” someone else adds, nodding toward Adrian.

The comments don’t sting the way I once feared they might. There was a time—not so long ago—when hearing people identify Adrian as her father would have triggered something complicated in my chest. Jealousy, maybe. Or insecurity. But standing here now, watching Maggie charm her audience, I feel nothing but pride. Maggie does have Sophie’s nose and Adrian’s eyes. She also has mannerisms she’s learned from all three of us—the way she quiets when I hum to her, the way she reaches for Adrian’s voice, the way she turns instinctively toward Sophie when she’s hungry.

Biology gave her some things. Love is giving her the rest.

“You good?” Sophie appears at my elbow, a piece of cake in hand that she offers to share. The frosting is pink, matching the streamers, and the sweetness of it fills the air between us.

“I’m good.” I take a bite, letting the sweetness melt on my tongue. The flavor is almost too sweet, but somehow perfect for this moment—an indulgence earned after months of bitter struggle. “Better than good. This is… exactly what I wanted. Even if I didn’t know I wanted it until I had it.”

“That’s usually how it works.” She leans against my side, warm and familiar. The weight of her against me feels like home—like something I didn’t know I was missing until I found it. “The best things sneak up on you.”

“Like you?”

“Exactly like me.” She grins up at me, that smile that still makes my heart skip after all these months. “And Adrian. And Maggie. None of you were part of my plan, and now you’re my whole life.”

“You had a plan?”

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