Asha tilted her head, still holding his hands, still basking in the rarest kind of miracle: Malvor, silent by choice.
Then she smirked.
"Well," she said, tone dry but eyes glittering, "as a thank you for respecting my boundary…"
He perked up.
"…I assume you've prepared some kind of utterly ridiculous outfit for me?"
Malvor beamed.
Not smiled. Not smirked. Beamed. Like she had just said the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to him in the history of gods, mortals, and dramatic entrances.
He didn't speak.
He just snapped.
In an instant, Asha sparkled.
Her nightshirt vanished in a shimmer of champagne light, replaced by a floor-length gown in deep purple and gold, the fabric shimmering with constellations that moved. Tiny stars winked and danced across the hem. The sleeves draped like soft smoke. The neckline? Bold enough to make a god bite his knuckles.
And the cape?
Oh, the cape.
It matched his. Flowing. Regal. Possibly enchanted to dramatically billow even in a breeze that didn't exist.
Malvor looked at her like he might cry.
"Darling," he whispered, one hand over his heart, "you look… divine."
She turned slowly, examining herself in the mirror.
"Is this velvet and illusion fabric?"
"Only the best for my birthday month battle goddess."
She arched a brow. "And I suppose you have matching outfits for every day of October?"
He grinned.
"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."
Asha sighed.
"You're lucky I love you."
"I know," he said, absolutely unashamed. "Now you match."
He offered her his arm, completely extra and absolutely perfect.
She took it.
And the cape billowed behind them as they stepped into the chaos, like royalty.
Ridiculous, glittery, boundary respecting royalty.
They came home laughing.
Hair mussed. Clothes rumpled. A smear of gold leaf still clinging to her cheek like a badge of honor. His cape was torn, again, and neither of them could remember if it had been the upside-down lava slide or the spontaneous duel with enchanted cupcakes that did it.
Their boots tracked in confetti. They didn't care.
Asha kicked the door closed behind them, still breathless from laughter.
Malvor collapsed dramatically on the nearest lounge, one arm draped over his forehead like a fainting noble.
"Today," he gasped, "was chaos perfection."
She smirked. "We were chased by mechanical chickens."
"And I'll never look at jam the same way again."
The laughter faded. Their boots stilled. And the silence that followed... felt different. Like the space had already been waiting for what came next.
Asha walked to a quiet corner of the room, where the air shimmered just slightly, and reached through it.
She pulled out a small, folded seam in the realm itself, like peeling back the fabric of space.
And from it, she retrieved a simple glass bottle.
Unmarked.
Unlabeled.
She turned, walked back, and placed it in his hands.
Malvor blinked.
He tilted it, as if waiting for glitter or song or divine light to burst from it.
Nothing.
Just glass.
"…A bottle?" he asked, tone halfway between confusion and amusement.
Asha smiled.
"Open it."
He did.
The moment the cork popped, the air changed.
Warm. Soft. Familiar.
It smelled like her.
Not perfume. Not magic. Just… her. That impossible mix of heat and softness and sunlight on skin.
His breath caught.
She gently reached over and closed it again.
Then opened it.
A laugh.
Her laugh. Light and unexpected, one of the rare ones that cracked through her ribs and escaped before she could guard it.
He looked at her, eyes wide now.
She took the bottle back. Closed it.
Offered it again.
"This," she said, voice softer now, "is me. Little pieces."
She ran her fingers along the smooth 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…"
She trailed off.
Malvor didn't speak.
Didn't joke.
He was staring at the bottle like it was made of starlight.
"Some of them are dumb," she added quickly, suddenly nervous. "Like, one is just me hiccupping after wine and trying to pretend I'm dignified."
His fingers tightened around it.
"And some of them are for when I'm not here," she whispered.
Silence.
Then—
He pressed the bottle to his lips. Not to drink. Just to feel it against his skin.
When he finally spoke, his voice was reverent.
"You bottled yourself."
"I thought you might get bored by one version," she said, trying to smile.
"I could never," he whispered.
He pulled her into his lap, gently, slowly, one hand still curled around the bottle, the other around her waist.
He kissed her temple.
Then her forehead.
Then her jaw.
And held her like she was the gift.
Because she was.
Malvor held the bottle against his chest, as if afraid it would vanish if he didn't anchor it there.
No smirk.
No quip.
Just silence, the rare kind he only ever gave her. The kind that was reverent.
She sat beside him, cross-legged, one knee touching his.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the bottle, and he passed it back to her without protest.
"This isn't just for when I'm gone," she said. "It's for when I'm quiet. When I forget how to show it."
He looked at her.
Really looked.
Like he was memorizing the curl of her hair, the gold caught in her lashes, the soft glow of her 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?"
She smiled, but it trembled. "I just wanted to give you something real."
He reached for her hand.
Laced their fingers.
"You gave me you," he said. "And I swear, Asha, there is nothing more real than that."
The bottle pulsed softly between them.
She looked down, and for just a moment, it shimmered with golden light.
A heartbeat.
Her heartbeat.
Echoed.
Matched.
Malvor inhaled like the universe had just taken its first breath again.
He placed the bottle on the nightstand—carefully, reverently. Not because he wanted distance. But because love isn't something you clutch like a weapon. It's something you trust to stay.
Stood.
And offered her his hand, not to dance, not to perform.
Just to lead her to bed.
No sex.
No spectacle.
Just skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat.
When they laid down, he didn't reach for her like a man who wanted. He wrapped around her like a god who cherished.
"Open it tomorrow," she murmured, cheek against his chest. "Let it surprise you."
He kissed her hair.
"No. I'll open it the next time I miss you. Even if you're right here."
And in the hush of the Realm of Mischief, with no illusions or spotlights left, she let herself believe it.
That she didn't have to give more, do more, be more.
She just had to be.
And in that moment, being was more than enough.