- Scold them for turning their apartment into a stage again.
- Laugh until she cried.
- Kiss both of them until they forgot whatever choreography they rehearsed.
She knew something was off the moment she stepped into the apartment.
It wasn’t just quiet—it was ominously quiet. The kind of silence that came before disaster. No screaming, no Ollie shouting facts about hammerhead sharks, no Sydney blasting old pop-punk remixes while dancing like she invented rhythm.
Just silence… and then the lights cut out.
“What the—?”
Click.
Spotlights (two desk lamps taped to broomsticks) flicked on. A faint hum filled the air as a cheap karaoke speaker crackled to life.
Then—
“🎵 Girl, when you’re gone it’s like the stars forget to shine— 🎵”
Ollie emerged from behind the couch wearing the top half of a pirate costume, glitter eyeliner, and what looked like their school debate blazer. Microphone in hand, their voice was smoother than she expected. Uncomfortably smooth. This was not just a bit.
“🎵 The room’s too clean, the snacks untouched, I’m outta rhymes— 🎵”
Before she could blink, Sydney exploded from the hallway, wearing a glittered crop top and ripped cargo pants, sliding in on her socks and landing in a crouch with finger guns pointed directly at her.
“I—what is—what is happening?”
“Boy band debut!” Ollie chirped between lyrics. “Welcome home, babe,” Sydney added, grinning. “Front row’s reserved just for you.”
“You’re not even—”
“🎵 You’re the harmony to my chaos, the sunshine in my fight— 🎵” Ollie winked at her, spinning like they’d trained for this moment since birth. “🎵 And even Sydney when she’s yelling / feels soft with you at night— 🎵”
Sydney dabbed mid-spin. “True.”
The two of them launched into a choreographed routine—Sydney doing the heavy dancing (and barely keeping her balance), while Ollie sang with genuine charisma and too many boy-band finger points. There were dramatic floor drops. Heart hands. At one point, Sydney slow-motion crawled across the floor during the bridge while Ollie passionately sang at her.
She stood in the entryway, bag of takeout dangling from one hand, torn between three strong impulses:
Instead, she stood frozen while they hit the final chorus in perfect sync—Ollie’s voice soaring, Sydney trying and failing to moonwalk behind them.
“🎵 We’re your disaster duo, certified dumb and true— But baby, if we’re chaos… we wanna be it with you 🎵”
Ollie threw a handful of glitter. It hit Sydney in the face. Sydney blinked. “Tasteful.”
When the music cut out, they both collapsed into dramatically exaggerated bows. She just stared.
“…You did all that while I was gone for three hours?”
“Three hours and seventeen minutes,” Ollie corrected proudly. “We had time to build a light rig.”
“It’s just desk lamps.”
“Don’t ruin the illusion,” Sydney pouted, then threw herself across their girlfriend’s shoulders, glitter flying everywhere. “Did we make you swoon or what?”
She blinked slowly. “You turned the living room into a concert hall, almost blinded each other with glitter, and somehow managed to… write a song that actually slaps.”
Ollie beamed. “So you liked it?”
“I—I don’t know if I’m supposed to be mad or impressed.”
“Can it be both?” Sydney asked sweetly, wrapping her arms tighter. “Like… scold us while you kiss us?”
“Babe,” she groaned.
“Just think about it,” Ollie added, looping their arms around her waist from the other side. “Punishment and praise. Very poetic. Very boy-band-coded.”
She sighed—then gave up entirely and let them smother her in affection, pressing kisses to both their foreheads (Sydney’s still glitter-dusted, Ollie’s already smug).
“Next time I come home,” she murmured, “I want dinner. Not a pop concert.”
“...But what if it’s a musical about dinner?” Ollie whispered.