You walk through her front door with a pink balloon between your teeth and a box of cupcakes cradled on your hip.

Callie’s in the living room, shirt half-tucked, wrestling streamers and clearly two seconds from snapping. There’s wrapping paper everywhere. Her son is shirtless, sticky with icing, and trying to put party hats on the dog.

She turns when she sees you.

Stops.

“You weren’t supposed to come till noon,” she says, flat.

You raise your brows. “Yeah, well. You’re hopeless without me.”

She crosses her arms. Tight. “Didn’t ask for help.”

“No,” you say, breezing past her, “you never do.”

You’re in the kitchen before she can reply, unpacking the cupcakes, setting things down like you’ve been living there your whole damn life.

She watches you from the doorway. Her jaw tight. Eyes heavy on you.

“You keep showin’ up like this, people are gonna start talkin’.”

You grin without looking. “Let ‘em.”

Silence.

You glance back over your shoulder and catch her staring. Really staring. Like she doesn’t mean to — like she’s mad she can’t stop.

“What?” you ask softly.

She exhales. “You got glitter on your face.”

You shrug. “Your kid asked for a fairy party. I don’t half-ass my themes.”

“Shouldn’t be wearin’ stuff like that ‘round me,” she mutters, more to herself than you. “That little top—”

You cut her off. “What? Gonna spank me in front of the juice boxes?”

That’s it.

Her eyes flash. Sharp.

“Don’t play with me, girl.”

You freeze. Goosebumps on your arms. Her voice is low — threatening, almost — but not mean. No, it’s something deeper. Protective. Tired. Hungry.

She takes one step toward you.

Then another.

But just before she reaches you, her son runs in screaming about a missing piñata stick, and Callie stops cold.

Backs off.

You stand there breathless.

She ruffles her son’s hair and mutters, “Ask your fairy.”