The month passes in a blur of boarding passes and foreign hotel sheets. Aiah still feels the phantom hum of airplane engines when she closes her eyes, the way the world moved too fast for a while, the way Mikha's hand never left hers through any of it.

Thailand tastes like chili and coconut and the way Mikha's face scrunched up when she bit into something too spicy, and Aiah laughed so hard she almost choked on her own food. "You're going to sulk if I don't try it," Mikha had said, eyes watering, reaching for another bite anyway. Aiah had watched her do it, this woman who never did anything she didn't want to do, and felt something warm spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the heat.

Japan is Mikha dragging her to a tiny shop for a sushi burrito she saw on TikTok, and they ate it standing on a street corner, both of them groaning about how full they were. "I think I'm going to explode," Mikha said, and Aiah patted her stomach and told her she'd still love her even as a human firework.

The UK is the surprise. Mikha had been so clingy before that trip, following Aiah around the house like a lost puppy, asking if she could come, please, please, she'd be good, she wouldn't get in the way. Aiah had let her beg for a full day before pretending to cave, and the look on Mikha's face when they walked into the Marvel museum—eyes wide, mouth open, that rare genuine smile breaking across her face—was worth every second of the act. Mikha talked for hours, pointing at every exhibit, explaining lore Aiah couldn't follow but didn't need to, because watching Mikha happy was its own language.

The Northwest is Mikha's turn. Aiah cried when she saw the Forks sign, actually cried, tears streaming down her face in front of a small diner that looked nothing like the movies but somehow everything like them. Mikha held her and laughed softly. "You're crying over a fictional vampire," she said, but she was smiling, and she took a hundred pictures of Aiah standing in front of every landmark, patient and fond.

Four weeks of that. Four weeks of making love in hotel rooms with unfamiliar views, of marking the places they had been. In Thailand, slow and lazy in the morning. In Japan, quick and desperate before dinner, Mikha's hand over Aiah's mouth so the neighbors wouldn't hear. In the UK, long and tender, Mikha whispering I love you against her throat. In the US, in a hotel room that smelled like pine, Aiah on top, Mikha's hands on her hips, both of them moving together like they had all the time in the world.

Four weeks of making fun of each other over room service, of trying foods neither of them could pronounce. Their phones are full of pictures now—Mikha mid-bite, Aiah laughing, both of them in front of landmarks, selfies taken at arm's length that never quite captured both their faces but captured everything else.

Even abroad, they worked. Mikha took calls from Kuya Bert about the farm. Aiah sat in hotel lobbies with her laptop, reviewing reports, approving budgets, her executive mask sliding on and off like a second skin. They'd look up from their work sometimes and catch each other watching, and one of them would smile, and the world would feel small and manageable again.

Now they're back. Reality has its grip on them again, and Aiah sits at the dining table in their house, surrounded by company documents, the quiet of the afternoon pressing in around her. Mikha left for Tarlac this morning, and she'd been impossible about it—wrapping her arms around Aiah from behind while Aiah tried to eat breakfast, pressing her face into Aiah's neck.

"Come with me," Mikha had said, her voice muffled against Aiah's skin. "The farm is nice this time of year. You can work there."

"I have deadlines," Aiah said, turning a page she wasn't reading.

"You can work anywhere." Mikha's lips brushed her shoulder. "Please?"

Aiah set down her fork and turned in Mikha's arms, cupping her face. "I have a lot of workloads to do. I'll be here when you get back."

Mikha pouted and Aiah kissed the pout off her face. "Fine," Mikha said, but she said it like a child being told no dessert, and Aiah had to hide her smile in Mikha's shoulder.

She didn't tell Mikha the real reason. She couldn't. Not when the surprise was still coming together.

The doorbell rings at half past one, and Aiah sets down her pen, already smiling. She opens the door to Jhoanna and Colet. Jhoanna is holding a tray of baked sushi while Colet carries two bottles of coke.

"Your favorites," Jhoanna announces, pushing past Aiah into the house. "We come bearing gifts and secrets."

Colet follows more quietly, setting the coke on the dining table, her eyes scanning the room once, twice, cataloging. "Mikha's not here?"

"Tarlac for the day," Aiah says, closing the door. "She wanted me to come, but I told her I had work."

"And by work, you mean plotting against her," Jhoanna says, already settling onto the couch, pulling the tray open. "I love it. Betrayal tastes like baked sushi."

Aiah laughs and sits across from them. "It's not betrayal. It's her birthday."

"Next month," Colet says.

"I already cleared my schedule for the whole week." Aiah picks up a piece of sushi, the rice cool and soft between her fingers. "I bought F1 tickets for the British Grand Prix. We're staying three days."

Jhoanna's eyebrows shoot up. "The British Grand Prix? That's—"

"Mikha loves racing," Aiah says simply. "She talks about it all the time. The engineering, the drivers, the strategy. I thought—" She pauses, suddenly shy. "I thought she'd like to see it in person."

Colet is watching her with an unreadable expression. "You bought tickets."

"And the hotel. And the flights." Aiah shrugs, trying to look casual. "I want it to be perfect."

Jhoanna sets down her sushi and leans forward, a grin spreading across her face. "Aiah Arceta-Lim, you are down bad."

"I am not—"

"Look at you," Jhoanna says, shaking her head. "All in love and shit. It's disgusting. I love it."

"She loves me that much too," Aiah says, she feels her face warm. "She just acts all nonchalant in front of other people. When it's just the two of us, she's the clingiest person on earth." Aiah can't help the smile that pulls at her mouth. "She follows me around the house. She wraps herself around me like a blanket. She holds my hand in her sleep. She—" She stops, catching herself. "Sorry. I could talk about her all day."

Jhoanna and Colet exchange a look, and Aiah knows she's being teased, but she doesn't care. Let them look. Let them see. She loves Mikha, and she's not going to hide it.

"So," Aiah says, steering the conversation back to business, "I need your help."

"With?" Colet asks.

"The birthday bash. The Saturday after we get back from the UK." Aiah sets down her sushi, folding her hands on her knees. "I want to throw her a party at the club. I'll shoulder all the expenses—food, drinks, decorations, everything. I just need you two to invite everyone."

Jhoanna tilts her head. "Everyone?"

"Everyone important to her. Everyone who's part of her life." Aiah pauses. "I haven't met most of her friends yet. I don't know who to call. But you two do."

Colet is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is softer than Aiah has ever heard it. "You want to meet her people."

"I want her to have a birthday she'll remember," Aiah says. "I want her to look around the room and see everyone she loves, and know that it's for her."

Jhoanna's grin has softened into something genuine. "That's really sweet, Aiah."

"It's what she deserves." Aiah means it. She means it so much it almost hurts. "She spent her whole life feeling like no one saw her. I want her to know that I do."

Colet nods slowly. "We can do that."

"We'll make a list," Jhoanna adds. "Everyone from the club, her old school friends, the people she's actually close to. It might take a few days to track everyone down, but we'll do it."

"Thank you." Aiah exhales, relief washing through her. "I just—I want it to be perfect. She deserves perfect."

Jhoanna leans forward, her eyes bright. "You really love her, huh?"

Aiah doesn't hesitate. "More than anything."

Colet and Jhoanna exchange another look, and this time it's not teasing. It's something like approval, something like acceptance. Aiah has passed a test she didn't know she was taking.

"We won't say a word," Jhoanna says, and she salutes, two fingers to her temple. "Mikha won't know a thing."

Colet just nods, and Aiah knows that's enough.

They talk for a while longer—about the party, about the guest list, about the logistics of surprising someone who notices everything. Aiah tells them about the F1 tickets, about the hotel, about the three days she's planned, and Jhoanna keeps making comments about how whipped she is, and Aiah keeps not denying it.

Her phone buzzes on the table. Mikha's name lights up the screen, and Aiah's heart does a small, familiar flip.

"She's a out to go home," Aiah says, reading the message.

Jhoanna stands, brushing crumbs off her lap. "That's our cue."

Colet rises too, and Aiah walks them to the door. Jhoanna hugs her at the threshold, quick and warm. "You're good for her," she says quietly, so only Aiah can hear. "I've known Mikha my whole life. I've never seen her like this."

Aiah's throat tightens. "I've never seen myself like this either."

Jhoanna pulls back, grinning. "Happy birthday to Mikha, I guess. You're the gift."

Aiah laughs and waves them off, watching their car pull away from the gate. The afternoon sun is warm on her face, and she stands there for a moment, letting herself feel it—the hope, the love, the quiet certainty that she's doing the right thing.

She closes the door and goes back to the dining table, but she doesn't pick up her pen. Instead, she pulls out her phone and scrolls through the pictures from their trip—Mikha in front of the Marvel museum, Mikha mid-laugh in Thailand, Mikha asleep on the plane with her mouth open, and Aiah's own face in the corner of the frame, looking at Mikha instead of the camera.

She loves her. She loves her so much it feels like a physical thing, a weight in her chest that's somehow not heavy at all.

Mikha will be home in a few hours. Aiah will pretend she spent the whole day working, and Mikha will pretend she believes her, and they'll have dinner and watch something on TV and fall asleep tangled together like they always do.

And next month, Mikha will walk into her club and see everyone she loves, and Aiah will be standing there, watching her face, waiting for the moment she realizes it's all for her.

Aiah sets down her phone and picks up her pen. She has documents to review, and a surprise to plan, and a wife to love.

She smiles, and gets back to work.

The afternoon settles back into quiet after Jhoanna and Colet leave. Aiah works through the documents with half her attention, the other half counting down the minutes until Mikha walks through the door. She signs a procurement approval without really reading it, catches herself, and flips back two pages to actually scan the numbers.

Her phone buzzes again. A photo. Mikha in the farm, standing under the mango trees with Lia perched on her hip, both of them squinting into the sun. The caption reads: Baby, Lia says hi. She also says you're prettier than me. She's wrong but I'll allow it.

Aiah laughs out loud and types back: Tell her I said she has excellent taste.

The reply comes almost instantly. I'm telling Kuya Bert you're corrupting his granddaughter.

You love me anyway.

The typing bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Then: Yeah. I do.

Aiah stares at the words longer than she should. Three little words, but still they undo something in her chest every single time. She saves the screenshot to her favorites folder, the one with a hundred other screenshots just like it, and puts her phone face-down before she can get distracted again.

She makes it through two more documents before the what-ifs start creeping in. What if Mikha doesn't like the party? What if she hates surprises? What if the F1 tickets turn out to be a disaster, and she spends three days in England wishing she were anywhere else?

Aiah sets down her pen and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. This is the problem with loving someone this much. The fear comes with it, tangled up in the joy, impossible to separate.

She thinks about the way Mikha looked at the Marvel museum. The way her eyes went wide and soft, the way she grabbed Aiah's hand and pulled her from exhibit to exhibit, talking so fast her words tripped over each other. She thinks about the way Mikha cried in the farm that afternoon, the truth spilling out of her like water from a cracked vessel, and the way she let Aiah hold her through it.

Mikha has never had a birthday party. Aiah knows this because Mikha told her one night, quiet and matter-of-fact, while they lay in the dark. Her parents always treated her birthday like a business obligation. A dinner with the wrong people, a cake she didn't get to cut, presents that were really apologies for not being there. She stopped celebrating it entirely at sixteen.

Aiah's chest aches just remembering it. She wants to give Mikha something that erases all of that. A room full of people who actually know her, who actually love her, who chose to be there because of who she is, not what her name can do for them.

She picks up her pen again, but the documents blur in front of her. She's too far inside her own head now, too busy imagining the look on Mikha's face, the way her mouth might fall open, the way she might not know what to do with a room full of love.

The front door opens at a quarter to five.

Aiah's head snaps up, and there she is—Mikha, home early, still wearing the loose shirt and jeans she left in this morning, her hair slightly windswept from the drive. She's holding a paper bag in one hand and a familiar look on her face, the one she gets when she's been thinking about Aiah all day and finally gets to see her.

"You're early," Aiah says, and her voice comes out softer than she meant it to.

"Kuya Bert let me leave early." Mikha kicks off her shoes by the door and crosses the room, setting the bag on the table. "He said I was too distracted to be useful. Kept checking my phone."

"Were you?"

Mikha doesn't answer. She just leans down and kisses Aiah, slow and warm, one hand coming up to cup her jaw. Aiah melts into it, the way she always does, her fingers finding the hem of Mikha's shirt and holding on.

"I missed you," Mikha murmurs against her lips.

"You saw me this morning."

"That was eight hours ago." Mikha pulls back just enough to look at her. "That's too long."

Aiah's heart does that familiar flip. "What's in the bag?"

"Pasalubong." Mikha's mouth curves into a small smile. "Kuya Bert's wife made those sticky rice cakes you liked. The ones with the coconut."

Aiah looks at the paper bag, then back at Mikha. "You brought me food from Tarlac."

"You said they were the best you'd ever had." Mikha shrugs, like it's nothing, like she didn't drive two hours with a bag of rice cakes in her passenger seat because Aiah mentioned liking them once. "I figured I'd bring you some."

Aiah doesn't know what to say. The words get stuck somewhere in her throat, and all she can do is pull Mikha down into another kiss, deeper this time, her hands sliding up into Mikha's hair.

Mikha makes a small sound against her mouth, and Aiah feels it everywhere. She stands, and Mikha steps back just enough to let her, and then they're moving toward the bedroom, the paper bag forgotten on the table, the documents abandoned mid-page.

"I thought you had work," Mikha says, breathless, as Aiah pushes her onto the bed.

"I did." Aiah climbs over her, straddling her hips, looking down at her. "It can wait."

Mikha's hands find her waist, thumbs brushing the sliver of skin between her shirt and her pajama. "You're going to get behind on your deadlines."

"I don't care." Aiah leans down, her lips brushing Mikha's ear. "I missed you."

Mikha's breath catches, her hands tighten on Aiah's waist, and Aiah feels the shift between them—the way the air changes, the way Mikha's eyes go dark and focused, the way the whole world narrows down to the space between their bodies.

"I love you," Mikha says, her voice low.

"I love you." Aiah kisses Mikha hard, swallowing the sound she makes, and lets her hands start undoing buttons.