I wasn’t expecting a Saturday plan.
Hell, I wasn’t expecting her to be this quiet all week. Not distant. Just... thoughtful.
The whole "jock jumps me and bruises my face" situation shook something loose in her. And now, apparently, she was on a mission.
"Be ready by ten," she’d texted me the night before.
I asked where we were going.
She replied with a kiss emoji and a dress code:
"Just wear something you don’t mind throwing away."
I had no idea what that meant.
Turned out, we were going shopping.
"Why are we here again?" I asked, staring at the entrance of a store that looked like it charged rent
She held my hand and tugged me forward. "Because I’m about to give the world a reason to hate me even more."
> "Because I’m upgrading my boyfriend. Now hush, Kai."
The store assistants gave us that half-curious, half-jealous glance when we walked in. Probably because she looked like a Vogue ad... and I looked like a clearance rack.
But Celestia didn’t care. She was too busy flipping through jackets, shoving things against my chest like a fashion war general.
"You’re not changing who I am," I warned.
She rolled her eyes. "I’m not. I’m revealing who you could be if you actually believed you were worth being seen."
And somehow... that didn’t feel like an insult.
Two stores, one cafe, and three mild arguments later, we were in a high-end salon. Hair. Beard. Brows. Skin. They did everything short of sacrifice a goat in my name.
I didn’t recognize myself when they were done.
She walked over slowly, her boots clicking against marble, eyes drinking me in.
Then she smirked. "God, I want to punch every girl staring at you right now."
I blinked. "They’re not—"
"They are and I don’t like it. And yes, I will make someone trip down the stairs if they keep giggling."
One of the girls near the shampoo station snorted too loud.
Celestia narrowed her eyes.
We didn’t go to another place. She said I looked "too good to share" and dragged us back to my apartment.
Inside, we collapsed on the couch with takeout. Laughed about stupid things. She pointed out how everyone in the salon kept flirting. I said they were just doing their job. She called me dumb.
Then her smile softened. A little more real.
"I meant what I said," she murmured.
I looked up. "About what?"
"About never leaving." Her tone dipped, playful but true. "Even if you tell me to."
I shook my head, half-laughing. "That’s not healthy."
"I’m not healthy," she whispered, eyes gleaming. "I’m obsessed."
I opened my mouth to say something stupid.
"But don’t think I’ve forgotten," she said, raising an eyebrow.
She leaned close, her voice dropping. "Your V-card. Still intact. Very disappointing."
She licked her lips like she was reading a dessert menu. "I’m just giving you time to adjust. So you don’t implode when I finally climb on top of you."
"Maybe during my next ovulation cycle," she said with a playful wink, like she hadn’t just committed verbal manslaughter.
I choked on my drink.
She giggled. "You look so hot when you panic."
She leaned her head on my shoulder, purring, "But you’ll die happy."
We sat in silence for a while, her curled into me like I was hers and always had been. Her fingers found mine.
"I meant it," she said again. "You’re everything."
I didn’t say anything, just held her tighter.
And tried to believe it.