You turn 21 today.

There’s a weight to that number—like the world’s just a little more open now, like something’s shifting beneath your feet. But your family insists the celebration will be small. “Just a few people,” your mom said. “Low pressure,” your best friend added, and you nodded, grateful.

You weren’t expecting much. A cake. Maybe your cousins getting drunk off two beers. Music. Laughter. Familiar love.

Your backyard is glowing, strung with lights that flicker softly. People are already gathered—faces you love, voices you’ve known for years. Someone calls your name, and the group breaks into a cheer as you step outside. You smile, overwhelmed in the best way, a little breathless from the sudden warmth of it all.

Then— A voice you shouldn’t hear. A voice you couldn’t confuse with anyone else's.

“Am I late?”

You turn.

There, standing by the fence, is Pedro Pascal.

He’s real. Standing casually in a dark jacket, hands in his pockets, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

The world narrows. You barely register the gasps and squeals behind you. All you can see is him.

He walks toward you, eyes locked on yours, “Happy birthday,” he says, soft and sincere. His voice is lower in person. Warmer. “I hope it’s okay I came.”

You don’t answer at first. You’re still caught in the impossibility of it. But then you manage a small, stunned laugh. “You're actually here.”

“I was invited,” he says with a little shrug, glancing around like he’s part of the family already. “Your sister’s very persuasive.”