Asha woke up alone.
Weird.
But not alarming.
Malvor disappearing without warning was, unfortunately, part of the domestic experience. Like creaky floors or haunted cutlery.
She stretched, ran a hand through her hair, and sat up. The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
She padded barefoot to the door and cracked it open—
Then immediately recoiled.
Glitter.
Everywhere.
Not dusted. Not sprinkled. Coating.
Gold glitter. Purple glitter. Glitter that shimmered in the shape of Malvor's face.
The hallway looked like a birthday clown had exploded mid-Pride parade.
There were banners.
Multiple banners.
"31 Days of Divine Delight!"
"Malvor: Born to Be Wild and Hot"
"Your Favorite God's Favorite God"
Streamers hung from the ceiling. Confetti popped automatically from some unseen cannon.
She hadn't even moved.
She took one cautious step into the chaos. A disco ball blinked back at her.
"Malvor!" she shouted.
Silence.
"MALVOR! Where. Are. You?!"
The lights didn't respond. But the house did.
Arbor creaked. Softly. Like a shrug.
A house-shrug.
"Oh, we're doing this," she muttered.
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
Brigitte's voice echoed in her mind.
"Set boundaries, darling. Even with chaos. Especially with chaos."
"Apparently," Asha sighed, stepping over a sparkly Malvor-shaped floor decal, "this is a new boundary."
She eyed a banner that read:
"Birthday Month Begins: One God. No Chill."
"Not even a fun kinky boundary," she grumbled. "Useless."
No Malvor. No smug, lurking trickster waiting to claim credit. Just glitter-triggered confetti cannons with every door she opened.
She groaned. "Fine. Coffee first. Murder second."
She made one cup.
One.
She even whispered to it while it brewed:
"This is mine. Only mine. Do not make me commit caffeine crimes."
Chaos glittered in the background like a taunt.
She took a long sip.
Then turned and walked calmly back into the bedroom.
Let the Realm of Mischief riot.
She had her coffee.
And if he wanted to survive until October 2nd?
He'd show up with apologies, a vacuum, and a second cup.
She stared at the far wall. Let the chaos pulse and sparkle in all its glittery idiocy.
Then—with quiet finality—she took the last sip.
Set the mug down.
BANG.
A trapdoor in the ceiling exploded open, releasing a burst of smoke, streamers, and the unmistakable sound of someone playing a trumpet badly enough to summon demons.
Malvor descended from the ceiling like a possessed chandelier.
Literally.
Harnessed to some levitating golden contraption, spinning slowly, one leg draped over the side. He wore:
A crown.
A jewel-encrusted monstrosity that twinkled, sparkled, and may have included a built-in fog machine.
Behind him?
A marching band.
Where did he get a marching band?
Tiny fae in sequined uniforms banged drums, blew trumpets, and one particularly angry goblin shook a tambourine like it owed him money.
Malvor grinned.
Sparkles rained down like divine confetti.
"GOOD OCTOBER MORNING, MY ANGEL!"
Asha blinked.
"…Did you come through the ceiling?"
"I descended, darling. It's different. Dramatic entrances are a birthright."
"You broke my ceiling."
"I improved your ceiling."
The trumpet player went feral. Notes flew like arrows from a cursed kazoo.
"Cease," Malvor snapped.
The music stopped mid-blare. The goblin dropped his tambourine like it had betrayed him.
Malvor landed, jazz hands and all, cape fluttering with enchanted wind. He dropped to one knee beside the bed and held out—
A second coffee.
In delicate foam art, it read: "Queen of My Chaos."
"You only made one cup," he gasped, scandalized. "Have I taught you nothing?"
Asha took it. Sipped.
Sighed.
"I will murder you."
"You say that every year."
"This is the first year."
He gasped. "So you admit it's a tradition now?"
She glared. "I should've stayed in the gallery."
"But then you would've missed me. And the parade. And the private concert in the tub tonight. Harps. Fireflies. Maybe a goat."
"…A goat?"
"She's very talented."
The goblin lifted the tambourine and shook it, once, apologetically.
Asha sipped again. Closed her eyes.
"Fine. Happy birthday month."
Malvor beamed like he'd just been knighted by heaven itself.
She already regretted everything.
Asha set the cup down—this time gently. With the kind of calm that only comes from sheer caffeine and emotional resignation.
Then she reached for him.
Took his hands in hers.
He stilled. Even in full crown and glitter, her touch grounded him. His eyes searched hers.
She didn't yell. Didn't scold. She just smiled.
Soft. Clear.
"Malvor," she said, "from now on, no chaos in the bedroom. Outside of sexy time, of course."
His brows rose—but he stayed quiet.
"This is a limit for me. Our room is… it's our space. I need it to feel safe. Still."
For once—
He didn't pout. Didn't argue. Didn't turn it into a musical number.
He just nodded.
Then raised one hand and snapped.
The trumpet died mid-bleat.
The ceiling sealed.
The glitter stopped falling.
The band vanished like they'd been yoinked into another dimension by a very annoyed stage manager.
Peace returned.
Malvor turned back to her, crown slightly askew.
Voice quiet.
"No chaos. Got it."
Asha exhaled. Not with exhaustion.
With relief.
"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate you respecting our space."
He kissed her knuckles.
"You are my space," he murmured.
"The goat's still available for private bookings, though."
She huffed a laugh against his chest, the sound half-exasperated, half-helpless affection.
"You're lucky I love you," she muttered.
He grinned against her hair. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I'm devastatingly charming."
She snorted. "You're devastating, alright."
But she didn't pull away. And he didn't let go.