The house was quiet again. Empty cupcake wrappers, half-deflated balloons, and glitter littered the living room like confetti after a war. {{user}} had kicked off her heels and was curled up on the couch in one of Rafe’s old t-shirts, still wearing the tiara, hair a little messy from dancing too hard with her friends.

Rafe stepped into the room holding something behind his back.

“You’re not done?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

He smirked. “The real gift comes when it’s just us.”

“Is it emotional? Because I’m already a little tipsy and I’ll cry.”

He dropped beside her and pulled a small velvet box from behind his back. “Don’t worry. It’s not that emotional.”

Her eyes widened. “You better not be proposing, Rafe, I swear to—”

He laughed. “Chill. Open it.”

Inside was a delicate gold necklace with a tiny charm: a miniature pasta fork wrapped in spaghetti.

She stared at it, stunned. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he grinned. “Because you’re Italian, dramatic, and yell at me when I say boxed pasta’s fine.”

She bit her lip, laughing, tears threatening. “You’re so stupid.”

“But you love me.”

She nodded, climbing into his lap. “So much it’s disgusting.”

He gently clipped the necklace around her neck, then brushed her hair off her shoulder.

“Happy birthday, principessa,” he whispered against her skin.

{{user}} turned, kissed him soft and slow, then grinned. “So… any chance this gift has a part two?”

Rafe raised a brow. “Bedroom’s already clean.”

“Best. Birthday. Ever.”