A week later, after the traumatic therapy session. The mansion hummed quietly. Lights twinkled across the hundred rooms, pastel reflections bouncing off polished floors. Outside, the night was still, deep blue and cold, waiting. Waiting for the fireworks, waiting for the chaos.
Inside, Tina flitted around like a hyperactive snowflake. Boxes of decorations, sparkling garlands, and tiny lights littered the living room. She hopped from chair to table, rearranging, straightening, correcting, flinging a strand of silver hair from her icy-blue eyes. Her vanilla mint scent filled the space, mingling with the warmth of the heaters. Calm? Not exactly. She thrived in this chaos, in the constant buzzing of small details. Behind her, Andrew followed. Heavy-footed, belly protruding like a golden-brown sunrise, honey-scented and panicked. Every time she moved, he shifted, muttering.
"Tiny… careful. You're gonna break something. Or yourself. Or both."
