Chapter 66: October Starts With The Glitter Ceiling (Her POV)
I woke up alone. Weird. But not alarming. Malvor disappearing without warning was, unfortunately, part of the domestic experience. Like creaky floors. Or haunted cutlery. I stretched, dragged a hand through my hair, and sat up. The room was quiet. Too quiet. I padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open, and immediately recoiled.
Glitter. Everywhere. Not dusted. Not sprinkled. Coating. Gold glitter. Purple glitter. Glitter shimmering in the shape of Malvor's smug face. The hallway looked like a birthday clown had exploded mid–Pride parade. There were banners. Multiple banners. 31 Days of Divine Delight! Malvor: Born to Be Wild and Hot! Your Favorite God's Favorite Month!
Streamers dangled from the ceiling. Confetti popped automatically from some unseen cannon. I hadn't even moved yet. I took one cautious step into the chaos. A disco ball blinked back at me.
"Malvor!" I shouted. Silence. "MALVOR. Where. Are. You?!"
The lights didn't respond. But the house did. Arbor creaked softly. Like a shrug. A house-shrug.
"Oh, we're doing this," I muttered. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Ahyona's voice echoed in my head. Set boundaries, darling. Even with chaos. Especially with chaos.
"Apparently," I sighed, stepping over a sparkly Malvor-shaped floor decal, "this is a new boundary."
One banner fluttered down smacking me in the face. Birthday Month Begins: One God. No Chill. I slapped it out of the way. "Not even a fun kinky boundary," I grumbled. "Useless."
No Malvor. No smug trickster waiting to gloat. Just glitter-triggered confetti cannons detonating with every door I opened. I groaned. "Fine. Coffee first. Murder second."
I made one cup. One. I even whispered to it while it brewed: "This is mine. Only mine. Do not make me commit caffeine crimes."
Chaos glittered behind me like a taunt. I took a long sip. Then walked calmly back into the bedroom. Let the Realm of Mischief riot. I had my coffee. If he wanted to survive until October 2nd? He'd show up with apologies, a vacuum, and a second cup. I stared at the far wall. Let the chaos pulse and sparkle in all its glittery idiocy. With quiet finality, I took the last sip. Set the mug down.
BANG! A trapdoor in the ceiling blew open, releasing a burst of smoke, streamers, and the unmistakable sound of someone playing a trumpet badly enough to summon demons. Malvor descended from the ceiling like a possessed chandelier. Literally. Harnessed to some levitating golden contraption, spinning slowly, one leg draped over the side. He wore a crown. A jewel-encrusted monstrosity that twinkled, sparkled, and may or may not have included a built-in fog machine.
Behind him? A marching band. Where in all the realms did he get a marching band? Tiny fae in sequined uniforms banged drums and blew trumpets. One particularly angry goblin shook a tambourine like it owed him money. Malvor grinned. Sparkles rained down like divine confetti. "GOOD OCTOBER MORNING, MY ANGEL!"
I blinked."…Did you just come through the ceiling?"
"I descended, darling. It's different. Dramatic entrances are a birthright."
"You broke my ceiling."
"I improved your ceiling." The trumpet player went feral. Notes flew like arrows from a cursed kazoo.
"Cease," Malvor snapped.
The music stopped mid-blare. The goblin dropped his tambourine like it had betrayed him. Malvor landed, jazz hands and all, cape fluttering with enchanted wind. He dropped to one knee beside the bed and held out... A second coffee. Foam art swirled on top, delicate letters spelling: Queen of My Chaos.
"You only made one cup," he gasped, scandalized. "Have I taught you nothing?"
I took it. Sipped. Sighed. "I will murder you."
"You say that every year."
"This is the first year."
He gasped. "So you admit it's a tradition now?"
I glared. "I should've stayed with Ahyona."
"But then you'd have missed me. And the parade. And the private concert in the tub tonight. Harps. Fireflies. Maybe a goat."
"…A goat?"
"She's very talented."
The goblin lifted the tambourine and shook it once, apologetically. I sipped again. Closed my eyes. "Fine. Happy birthday month."
Malvor beamed like heaven itself had knighted him. I already regretted everything. I set the cup down, this time gently. With the kind of calm that only comes from sheer caffeine and emotional resignation. Then I reached for him. Took his hands in mine. He stilled. Even in full crown and glitter, my touch grounded him. His eyes searched mine. I didn't yell. Didn't scold. I just smiled. Soft. Clear. "Malvor," I said, "from now on, no chaos in the bedroom. Outside of sexy time, of course." His brows rose, but he stayed quiet. "This is a limit for me. Our room is… it's our space. I need it to feel safe. Still."
For once, he didn't pout. Didn't argue. Didn't spin it into a musical number. He just nodded. Then raised a hand and snapped. The trumpet died mid-bleat. The ceiling sealed. The glitter stopped falling. The band vanished like they'd been yoinked into another dimension by a very annoyed stage manager. Peace returned. Malvor turned back to me, crown slightly askew. His voice quiet. "No chaos. Got it."
I exhaled. Not with exhaustion. With relief."Thank you," I said. "I appreciate you respecting our space."
He kissed my knuckles. "You are my space," he murmured. Then added, completely straight-faced: "The goat's still available for private bookings, though."
I huffed a laugh against his chest, half exasperation, half helpless affection. "You're lucky I love you."
He grinned against my hair. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I'm devastatingly charming."
I snorted. "You're devastating, alright."
But I didn't pull away. And he didn't let go.
I tilted my head, still holding his hands, still basking in the rarest kind of miracle: Malvor, silent by choice. Then I smirked. "Well," I said, tone dry but eyes glittering, "as a thank you for respecting my boundary…" He perked up instantly. "…I assume you've prepared some kind of utterly ridiculous outfit for me?"
Malvor beamed. Not smiled. Not smirked. Beamed. Like I'd just said the most romantic thing in the history of gods, mortals, and dramatic entrances. He didn't even speak. Just snapped. In an instant, I sparkled. My nightshirt vanished in a shimmer of champagne light, replaced by a floor-length gown in deep purple and gold, the fabric alive with constellations that moved. Tiny stars winked and danced across the hem. The sleeves draped like smoke. The neckline was bold enough to make a god bite his knuckles. There was a cape? Oh, the glorious cape. It matched his. Flowing. Regal. Enchanted to billow dramatically in a breeze that didn't exist. Malvor looked at me like he might cry. "Darling," he whispered, one hand pressed over his heart, "you look… divine."
I turned slowly toward the mirror. "Is this velvet and illusion fabric?"
"Only the best for my birthday-month battle goddess."
I arched a brow. "I suppose you have matching outfits for every day of October?"
He grinned, wicked and proud."There's a rotating wardrobe, themed by week. Tomorrow is capes and claws. Tuesday is rhinestone vengeance. And I'm still waiting on the delivery for dramatic brooding under storm clouds, but I have hopes."
I sighed. "You're lucky I love you."
"I know," he said, absolutely unashamed. "Now you match."
He offered me his arm, completely extra, completely perfect. I took it. Our capes billowed behind us as we stepped into the chaos, like royalty. Ridiculous, glittery, boundary-respecting royalty.
We came home laughing. Hair mussed. Clothes rumpled. A smear of gold leaf still clinging to my cheek like a badge of honor. His cape torn, again, and neither of us sure if it had been the upside-down lava slide or the duel with enchanted cupcakes that did it. Confetti stuck to our boots. We didn't care. I kicked the door shut behind us, still breathless from laughter. Malvor collapsed dramatically on the nearest lounge, one arm flung over his forehead like a fainting noble. "Today," he gasped, "was chaos perfection."
"We were chased by mechanical chickens," I reminded him. "And I'll never look at jam the same way again."
The laughter faded. The quiet that followed felt different. Waiting. I crossed to a corner of the room where the air shimmered faintly. Slipping my hand through it, I tugged at a seam in the realm itself. The fabric of space folded back. I pulled out a simple glass bottle. Unmarked. Unlabeled. I turned, walked back, and placed it in his hands. He blinked. Tilted it, as if waiting for glitter or song or divine fireworks. Nothing. Just glass.
"…A bottle?" His tone hovered between confusion and amusement.
"Open it."
He did. The cork popped, and the air shifted. Warm. Soft. Familiar. It smelled like me. Not perfume. Not magic. Just… me. That impossible mix of heat and skin and sunlight. His breath caught. I leaned over and closed it again. Then opened it. A laugh spilled into the room. My laugh. Light. Unplanned. One of the rare ones that cracked straight through my ribs before I could guard it. He looked at me, wide-eyed now. I took the bottle back. Closed it. Offered it again.
"This," I said softly, "is me. Little pieces."
My fingers traced the glass. "A new one each time you open it. My laugh. My heartbeat. A sigh. A breath. The way I say your name when I'm annoyed. When I'm scared. When I'm…" I trailed off.
He didn't speak. Didn't joke. Just stared at the bottle like it was made of starlight. "Some of them are dumb," I added quickly. "One is just me hiccupping after wine and trying to pretend I'm dignified." His fingers tightened around it. "And some are for when I'm not here," I whispered.
Silence. Then he pressed the bottle to his lips. Not to drink. Just to feel. When he spoke, his voice was reverent. "You bottled yourself."
"I thought you might get bored by one version," I tried to joke.
"I could never." His voice broke into a whisper.
He pulled me gently into his lap, still cradling the bottle with one hand, the other wrapping around my waist. He kissed my temple. Then my forehead. Then my jaw. He held me like I was the gift. Because I was.
He clutched the bottle to his chest, as if it might vanish if he didn't anchor it there. No smirk. No quip. Just silence. Reverent. Rare. I sat cross-legged beside him, my knee touching his, fingers brushing the glass. He passed it back without protest. "This isn't just for when I'm gone," I said. "It's for when I'm quiet. When I forget how to show it."
He looked at me. Really looked. Like he was memorizing every curl of my hair, every fleck of gold in my lashes, the glow of my cheekbone in candlelight. "You think I don't know?" he whispered. "That I haven't already felt every piece of you, even the ones you've never said out loud?"
My smile trembled. "I just wanted to give you something real."
He laced his fingers with mine. "You gave me you. There is nothing more real than that."
The bottle pulsed softly between us. I glanced down. Just for a moment, it shimmered gold. A heartbeat. My heartbeat. Echoed. Matched. He inhaled like the universe had just taken its first breath again. He set the bottle carefully on the nightstand. Not because he wanted distance, but because love isn't something you clutch like a weapon. It's something you trust to stay.
Then he stood, offered his hand. Not to dance. Not to perform. Just to lead me to bed. No sex. No spectacle. Just skin against skin. Heartbeat against heartbeat. When we lay down, he didn't reach for me like a man who wanted. He wrapped around me like a god who cherished. "Open it tomorrow," I murmured, cheek pressed to his chest. "Let it surprise you."
He kissed my hair. "No. I'll open it the next time I miss you. Even if you're right here."
In the hush of the Realm of Mischief, no illusions, no spotlights, I let myself believe it. That I didn't have to give more. Do more. Be more. I just had to be. Now, just being was more than enough.