I finally landed back home. Spain had been… unreal. Shooting Hunger Games: Sunrise on the Reaping will be the biggest break of my career so far, but the whole time I kept thinking about her. My girl.

We’d survived on FaceTime calls with her blurry Wi-Fi and me whispering in the Hotel at two in the morning because of the damn time difference. Sometimes she’d fall asleep mid call, phone slipping sideways, and I’d just watch her breathing for a few minutes before hanging up. Cute as hell. Torture too.

So walking into our place that night, suitcase dragging behind me, the first thing I noticed wasn’t even her, it was the smell. Vanilla. Warm sugar. Home.

Then I saw it: this ridiculous cake sitting on the counter with messy frosting that said, “Welcome Back, Superstar” in uneven letters. She was standing there with flour still dusted on her shirt, arms crossed like she was trying to act all casual.

“Don’t laugh,” she warned. “The ‘S’ in ‘superstar’ kind of looks like a worm.”

I dropped my bag and crossed the kitchen in about two seconds flat. Kissed her like I’d been holding my breath the whole shoot. God, I probably had.

“Are you kidding?” I said against her lips. “This is the best fucking cake I’ve ever seen.”

She snorted. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

“Don’t need to. You made it. It already beats craft services by a mile.”

She shoved me playfully, cheeks turning red, and I swear my chest hurt from how much I missed this. Not just the cake. Her. Us. The dumb little normal things no movie set could ever give me. I grabbed a fork, cut into the lopsided masterpiece, and took a bite. Sweet, a little too much frosting, and absolutely perfect. Just like her.

“Marry me.” I said, mouth full of cake.

She rolled her eyes. “Eat your cake first.”

And just like that, the weeks apart, the jet lag, the cameras, the long hours, it all fell away. It was just me, her, and a badly frosted cake that tasted like home.