Lucy sighs dramatically, adding more glitter glue to the pony’s mane. “Fine. But if I don’t get a pony, I at least want extra cake.”
“Done,” I say quickly, desperate to escape the pony negotiations.
Ivy nudges me playfully, shaking her head. “Caved so fast.”
“You try arguing with her,” I mutter.
Ivy leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “You’re lucky I love you.”
I smirk. “I am.”
I glance at Lucy, who is now back to drawing, happily oblivious. My arm wraps around Ivy’s waist, pulling her closer as she rests her head against my shoulder.
Eight months ago, I told her I loved her.
And since then, she’s been in everything.
She’s in the way Lucy laughs more. The way our home feels warmer. The way my world finally feels complete.
It wasn’t something we rushed.
Ivy and I were careful when we told Lucy that we weren’t just friends anymore—that we were together in a different way now. We sat her down, explained it in simple terms, made sure she understood that nothing was changing in a way that would worry her.
She listened, serious, like she was assessing the situation, her little brow furrowed.
Then, after a moment, she asked, “So Ivy’s your girlfriend now?”
I exchanged a look with Ivy and nodded. “Yeah. She is.”
Lucy considered this for another second before shrugging and saying, “Okay. But can she still be my Ivy too?”
My heart nearly cracked open on the spot.
And from then on, Lucy had thrived in her new dynamic with Ivy.
Mostly because it meant she got to team up against me.
The biggest perk? When Ivy stays over, Lucy gets breakfast in bed.
Which means I am now a sap who delivers two plates of toast, fruit, and juice to them every Saturday while they lounge in my bed, watching cartoons and gigglingbehind their hands at my tragic fate. I’m also the weirdo who then attacks the bed with the hoover because I can’t sleep with all the crumbs they leave behind. Once a dork, always a dork.
The worst part?
I love it.
I love waking up to Ivy in my bed, love the way she and Lucy fit together so effortlessly. Love the way Lucy has started insisting that Ivy be there for bedtime stories, for school drop-offs, for lazy Sundays spent in pyjamas.
Love the way my life finally feels whole.
I glance at Ivy, who is back on the floor beside Lucy, helping her colour, their heads close together, whispering about something conspiratorial. Like they’re plotting. Like I’m already doomed. But I wouldn’t change a thing.
I narrow my eyes. “What are you two up to?”
They both snap their heads up like they’ve been caught, but Ivy just grins, far too pleased with herself.
“This moment,” she declares dramatically, “calls for ice cream.”
I open my mouth to protest—because we literally just had dinner—but I never get the chance.
