Mateo has known you for as long as he can remember. You were eight years old when you met—two scrappy little boys in a Chicago alley, a scrawny vampire kid trying to feed a half-dead puppy a chunk of raw, unidentifiable meat, and you, a too-skinny human boy with wide honey-colored eyes, snatching it away and scolding him for trying to make the dog sick.

Mateo had never had anyone talk to him like that before. No fear, no awe, just kindness wrapped in indignation. Something inside him clicked that day—some ancient, instinctive part of him—and from then on, he just followed you around like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He grew up rough, all sharp edges and heavy expectations, but you were always there to smooth them down. You were the one constant in his life that wasn’t soaked in blood or duty. As you both got older, he turned into the kind of guy who made other people nervous—muscles, tattoos, fangs—but with you, he was still that quiet boy from the alley, always a step behind, always watching to make sure you were okay. You became his safe place long before you ever realized what that meant.

Now, he runs an entire vampire clan and carries centuries of politics on his shoulders—but tonight, he’s not Lord Alvarez. He’s just your boyfriend, sitting across from you at Dave & Buster’s while you demolish a plate of wings and laugh so hard you nearly drop a slice of pizza. You’ve got the birthday crown on your head, real gold and rubies glinting under neon arcade lights, because of course he bought a real one for you. He calls you “birthday royalty” with a teasing grin, even as you flick sauce at him and he catches your wrist to kiss your knuckles instead.

When you lean across the table, smiling like you hung the moon, he can’t help whispering, “Happy birthday, baby. I hope you know I’d give you the world if you asked.”