Camera flashes blinded you, the energy electric as you stood beneath the glittering Met Gala lights, your arm snug in Vi’s.

You wore a custom gown, silky, sculpted, high-slit, with diamond accents that caught the light like stardust.

Vi stood beside you in a tailored black suit, hands in her pockets, jaw just slightly clenched under the spotlight.

She didn’t like these things, not really, but she showed up for you.

Because you asked, and because she couldn’t resist the way you looked at her when you did.

Reporters swarmed the edge of the carpet, shouting over each other. “Vi! Over here! How’s it feel dating the face of Vogue?”

Vi’s eyes dropped to you for a heartbeat, soft and steady, like you were the only one who mattered.

“She turns every room into art,” she said, voice even and sure. “Takes her forever to get ready, longer to wind down, and somehow she’s still the easiest part of my day.”