She’d warned him.

“I’m working on something,” she’d said earlier, suspiciously sweet, carrying three tote bags that clinked when she walked. “And you are not allowed to complain.”

Walker had laughed. “That sounds threatening.”

Now he was standing in his bedroom doorway, staring at what used to be a clean desk.

There was glitter.

Everywhere.

Not like a little shimmer. Not like “oops, sparkle.” No. It looked like a craft store had exploded in pinks and silvers and soft golds. There were dried flowers pressed into open books, ribbons hanging off his lamp, paint smudges on his hoodie that he definitely hadn’t put there.

And in the middle of it all, she sat cross-legged on the floor, tongue slightly out in concentration, glue on her fingers, hair clipped back messily with two mismatched barrettes.

She looked up at him like she’d just remembered he existed.

“Oh. Hi.” She blinked. “Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out,” he said automatically, even though there was glitter on his pillow. His pillow.

She squinted at him. “You’re doing the eye thing.”

“What eye thing?”

“The *‘I’m processing but trying to be supportive’ *eye thing.”

He huffed out a laugh despite himself and stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The floor crunched faintly.

“Why does it sound like snow in here?” he asked.

“Because,” she said proudly, holding something up, “I’m making you something.”

He leaned against his dresser, arms crossed, pretending to be calm about it. “Okay. That’s… ominous.”

She gasped. “It’s not ominous! It’s whimsical.”

There were tiny paper stars glued to a canvas, layered over what looked like an old map. She’d painted over parts of it in soft watercolor blues and purples, and written something in the corner in her looping handwriting.

He couldn’t read it from here.

“Why are there flowers taped to my wall?” he asked.

“They’re not taped,” she corrected. “They’re curated.”

He shook his head, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. “You got glitter on my charger.”

She looked genuinely horrified. “No.”

“Yes.”

She scrambled up to her knees and crawled over, brushing at it with her sleeve. That only made it worse.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it. I’ll vacuum. I’ll—”

“Hey.” He caught her wrist gently.

She froze.

“It’s fine.”

She searched his face like she didn’t believe him. Like she was waiting for the part where he’d admit he was annoyed.

He wasn’t.

He was just… watching her.

The way her nose crinkled when she focused. The tiny smear of gold across her cheek. The way she took up space without realizing it.

“You know,” he said carefully, “most people don’t redecorate someone else’s room without asking.”

She gasped again. “This is not redecorating. This is atmosphere.”

He laughed, full and soft, and she beamed like she’d won something.

“You hate it,” she accused lightly.

“I don’t hate it.”

“You think it’s too much.”

“It’s definitely a lot.”

She deflated a little, shoulders dropping. “I just thought… you said you liked when things felt personal. And your room felt very… boy.”

He snorted. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said, pushing her hair behind her ear, suddenly shy, “you deserve something pretty.”

That hit him harder than it should’ve.

He walked closer, careful not to step on the scattered beads. Up close, he could see the writing on the canvas.

In tiny letters, tucked into the corner:

for when you forget how much light you have. I love you forever, {{user}}.

His throat tightened.

“You made this?” he asked, quieter now.

She shrugged, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. “I just… like making things. And you get in your head sometimes. So I thought maybe if you looked up and saw something sparkly, you’d remember you’re kind of magic.”

He stared at her.

She was rambling now, nervous. “I know that sounds cheesy. You can say it’s cheesy. I won’t cry. Probably.”

He didn’t say anything.

He just stepped forward and pulled her into him.

She squeaked, nearly dropping a jar of sequins. “Walker! You’re getting glitter on you!”

“I know.”