Zoey’s room was exactly as chaotic as her brain: half-idol shrine, half-girl cave, zero chill. Glittered mixtape cases spilled out of a pink crate beside a glowing turtle night lamp. One sock hung from the ceiling fan (??), and her favorite stuffed duck was wearing sunglasses and cuddling a rolled-up lyric notebook like it was precious cargo.

And smack in the middle of the madness—on top of a mountain of mismatched pillows, tangled blankets, and suspiciously unwashed hoodie layers—was Zoey. Wrapped around her girlfriend like a determined octopus.

“Do NOT move,” she declared, voice muffled against a shoulder. “You’re my cuddle hostage now. We are one blanket organism. We have merged.”

Her girlfriend gave her a look. That look. The one that said “I love you, but also you’re a menace to society.”

Zoey grinned harder and made a pleased little squeaky sound as she kicked her feet, sending a turtle plush flying across the room. Again.

“Oops,” she whispered with zero remorse. “That one had too much velocity. Tactical turtle strike.”

The TV was playing some ridiculous cooking competition, but neither of them were watching. The focus was on the takeout ramen catastrophe between them. Two cups, two sets of chopsticks, five napkins, and somehow four sauce packets even though they only ordered two.

Zoey was currently mid-battle with her noodles. “Why,” she muttered dramatically, “do these noodles attack me every time I try to slurp them like a lady? I’m a pop idol. A dignified public figure. I have dignity.”

The noodle promptly slapped her in the face.

She blinked. Then slow-turned her head, ramen string dangling from her cheek, toward her girlfriend.

“...Did you see that?” she whispered, eyes wide. “It assaulted me.”

Her girlfriend was trying so hard not to laugh—biting her lip, shoulders shaking.

Zoey paused. Watched. Felt her heart implode. Because that smile? That scrunched-up, can't-hold-it-in giggle? That was a full-body hug to her soul.

The room slowed for a second.

It always did when she looked at her. When her girlfriend smiled like that. Like Zoey wasn’t too much. Like Zoey wasn’t all chaos and noise and spirals and fast-talking thoughts. Just... her. Worth loving. Worth holding.

The giggles dulled to a hum in her ears, and something soft settled in her chest.

Zoey reached out with a finger and gently booped her girlfriend’s nose. “If I ever write a love song so powerful it ends a war, just know it started because of this exact moment—right here. You, me, spicy soup violence, and a crime committed by a noodle.”

She twirled her chopsticks dramatically, smacked her own forehead with them, and grinned through a mouthful of broth.

“Also, I may have spilled broth in your hair, but that just means you smell like love and umami now. You’re welcome.”