Party cone hat with a spinning propeller on top.
Bright yellow star sunglasses.
We both stare at the growing disaster on the coffee table. Then we’re laughing again—so hard that the propeller on the hat starts spinning from the sheer force of it.
“This has got to be the stupidest idea Ethan and Aria have ever had,” Milo laughs, wiping his eyes.
“It’s thebestidea they’ve ever had,” I correct, still giggling.
He leans forward, picks up the propeller hat, and says, “You’re really going to make me wear this out in public?”
“Absolutely,” I smile. “And I expect you to spin it during the chorus of whatever song we sing at karaoke.”
I snatch the green wig from the table and plop it on his head. The electric curls frame his unfairly handsome face. He doesn’t take it off. Instead, he picks up the purple wig and gently sets it over my hair, his fingers brushing my cheek as he tucks a stray curl behind my ear.
The color is criminal, but the way he’s looking at me—soft, warm, like I’m the most beautiful disaster he’s ever seen—makes something dangerous bloom in my chest.
“You look ridiculously beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice softer now.
“So do you.”
He keeps his hand near my face a second longer. “I like ridiculous.”
My breath catches. “Me too.”
For a moment, we just sit there—two idiots in wigs, surrounded by the most unhinged outfits ever assembled—ourhearts beating way too loud for people who swore this was just fun.
Then Milo leans in, and I meet him halfway.
The kiss is slower than yesterday, sweeter, as if we’re both trying to memorize this exact moment. His hand cups my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. I sigh into his mouth, my fingers curling into the hair at his nape as if I could hold onto this bubble a little longer.
When we finally pull back, foreheads still touching, his voice drops. “We should probably get ready for tonight’s chaos…”
“Yeah…” I whisper.
Neither of us moves right away.
Eventually, I force myself up, smoothing my hands down my dress. “Shower. Then we meet back here for the grand unveiling?”
He nods, eyes warm. “Sounds like a plan.”
An hour later,I’m fully decked out in the outfit Milo picked for me—complete with bright pink eyeshadow and matching lipstick. I slip into the platform heels, add the jangly bracelets and the rainbow boa, then check myself in the full-length mirror.
I look like a disco ball had a glittery love child with a flamingo.
Still laughing under my breath, I head to the living area. Milo is already waiting, standing in the middle of the room like a man who has accepted his tragic fate. Arms braced on his hips, propeller hat slightly crooked, neon-green wig glowing.
I stop in my tracks.
For one suspended heartbeat, we just stare at each other.
Then we both absolutely lose it.
I double over, laughing so hard my stomach hurts. Milo throws his head back and laughs too—deep, unrestrained, the kind that makes the propeller on his hat spin even faster.
“You…” I gasp, pointing at him as tears stream down my face. “The socks. The flamingo. Milo, you’re a walking fever dream, baby. Stupidly hot in this mess.”
One dark brow lifts above the star-shaped sunglasses. “Right back at you.”
