The morning sun slipped through the gauzy curtains like shy fingertips, brushing across Freya’s cheek until she stirred with a slow breath. She blinked, the world still drowsy behind her eyes, but when she turned over expecting to pull Maia into her arms, she was met with a surprising emptiness. The blankets were cold on that side.

  Her brows furrowed slightly. That’s odd… she’s always the last to wake.

  Just as Freya was about to call out her name, the door creaked open. There, standing barefoot with soft determination, was Maia—carrying a tray with warm breakfast and the smell of honeyed bread and toasted almonds trailing behind her like a breeze of devotion.

  “Maia?” Freya sat up slowly, her silver-streaked hair falling over one shoulder.

  Maia smiled, walked over, and leaned down to press a kiss gently onto her lips. “Good morning, firelight. I woke up a bit early. Thought I’d surprise you for once.”

  “You—” Freya looked at the tray, blinking at the perfectly sliced fruit, the honey-drizzled bread, the lavender tea… and then her gaze caught something. In the middle of the plate, drawn carefully in syrup and crushed petal sugar, were the words:

  “Happy 80th, my love.”

  Maia settled beside her on the bed, watching her reaction. Freya’s lips parted slightly, eyes darting from the message to Maia’s warm, knowing face. She set the tray aside carefully and wrapped her arms around her wife, holding her tight—tight enough to say I'm sorry I forgot, but soft enough not to say it aloud.

  Maia chuckled quietly in her ear. “You just remembered, didn’t you?”

  Freya sighed into her neck. “You could’ve scolded me. Or teased me.”

  Maia kissed her temple. “What for? I already knew you’d forget. You always do when it falls near moonfall. That brain of yours is still stuck in the war maps.”

  Freya pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “And you still made me breakfast.”

  “I always will,” Maia said simply, brushing a strand of hair away from Freya’s face.

  They sat together, their legs tangled up, the breakfast tray nearby but forgotten for a moment. Outside, birds trilled between the redwood boughs of their home in the tree village. Their home smelled of the herbs Freya always lit on mornings they celebrated something—milestones, Raelin’s first steps, their first peace treaty, or the night the stars rained gold.

  Freya, watching Maia, breathed in deeply and smiled. “You know... most Aeylrs live a thousand years or more. Can you imagine eighty anniversaries already? We really didn’t waste any time.”

  Maia smirked. “No. I saw you once, and I decided that was it. One life, one fire.”

  Freya reached for the small clay bowl and lit the ritual herbs beside them. The soft blue smoke coiled up gently. Maia nestled closer to her chest, resting there with a quiet sigh. Their lips were just brushing, their eyes half-closed and their hearts steady when—

  SLAM!

  The bedroom door burst open.

  “Mamaaaaa!”

  A small boy with unruly dark hair and flushed cheeks sprinted in, tears streaking his face.

  “I—I wet my pants! It’s everywhere!” Raelin wailed dramatically, his little arms outstretched.

  Freya’s shoulders sank with a muffled “Spirits…” while Maia flinched mid-kiss and jerked back with a groan.

  “No no no, don’t come near—Maia, he’s charging!” Freya shouted.

  Maia immediately stood up and intercepted him before he could leap into bed. She crouched down, holding him by the shoulders.

  “Raelin. It’s okay, but we do not jump on people when we are... leaking.”

  “I didn’t mean to!” he sniffled.

  “I know, sweetheart,” Maia said in that firm voice that carried both love and order. “But now you’re going to take a bath.”

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  “In the morning?” he cried, looking at Freya for backup.

  Maia stood tall, arms crossed. “If you don’t, every Aeylr from here to the western grove will smell you and know what you did.”

  Raelin’s eyes went wide in horror. “Even the tree-runner kids?!”

  “All of them,” Maia said solemnly.

  The boy screamed, “NOOOO,” and ran for the washroom.

  Maia rubbed her temples and turned to Freya, who was laughing so hard she had to clutch the edge of the bed.

  “You're ruthless,” Freya grinned.

  “He inherited the drama from you,” Maia muttered as she walked toward the bath chamber to supervise.

  Freya leaned back into the pillows, still chuckling, and stared at the ceiling while the herbs swirled around her. She could hear Maia humming softly while filling the bath. The scent of rosemary and yarrow mixed with the smoke, bringing back memories—their wedding night beneath the moons, the storm they survived together on the cliffs of Alderak, the tiny cottage they once shared before this home…

  She smiled, a little misty-eyed, and whispered to herself, “Eighty years. And I still want a thousand more.”

  The room was quiet now. The soft hum of night creatures buzzed gently outside their window, and moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a pale silver over the sleeping forms on the bed.

  Maia lay curled up on Freya’s bare chest, her breath warm and steady against her skin. Both of them lay bare beneath the light blanket, limbs tangled in comfort and trust. Freya’s fingers gently stroked through Maia’s thick hair, untangling strands and caressing her scalp with the sort of patience that came from years and years of loving her.

  Her eyes drifted to Maia’s exposed neck and shoulder, catching sight of the red marks—faint but clear—trails of passion left from earlier in the evening. She smiled faintly, running her knuckles down the side of her wife’s arm. It was peaceful now, the kind of silence that wrapped around the bones and settled into the heart.

  And as she stared at Maia’s sleeping form, memories flickered back like old starlight.

  She was around thirty then—still more of a girl, really, trailing behind her father during relocation scouting missions. That day had been particularly hot. The forest trees had shimmered with golden dust and heat, and Freya had been walking too fast, too distracted, when it happened.

  She’d turned a corner and accidentally knocked into someone.

  There was a splash.

  A scream.

  And then a soaked, furious Maia bursting up from the pond, flailing in soaked white linen that clung to every inch of her like a second skin.

  “YOU KICKED ME INTO THE WATER!” Maia had shouted, arms flailing. “SHE KICKED ME!”

  Freya had been frozen, both horrified and captivated, unsure where to look. Her father had turned pale, stammering apologies, but Freya… she’d acted on instinct. She tore off her own cloak and ran forward, wrapping it around the dripping, sputtering stranger.

  “Your shirt,” she whispered, trying to keep her gaze anywhere but the transparent cloth.

  Maia had frozen then, realizing the full state of exposure. Her ears turned scarlet.

  “You’ll regret this,” Maia had declared, clutching the cloak and stomping off.

  Freya remembered standing there, flustered beyond words. She had never forgotten the way her heart pounded when she’d seen Maia—drenched and furious, beautiful and strange, like a storm made of silk and fire.

  And Maia did come back for revenge.

  Except the “revenge” turned into late-night visits and endless arguments that always melted into shared laughter. It turned into stolen glances, long walks, and eventually—their first kiss by the bonfire under the violet moons.

  Freya sighed now, still combing her fingers through Maia’s hair. “You said you’d get your revenge,” she whispered. “You did. You stole my heart and never gave it back.”

  Her hand rested gently on Maia’s spine now, moving in slow circles.

  Another memory rose to the surface, this one stronger than the rest.

  The day Raelin was born.

  Freya had panicked. Maia had gone into labor so suddenly, and Freya, who had once faced down warring tribes and roaring beasts, had completely lost her nerve. She’d sprinted through the settlement in nothing but her nightshirt, yelling, “SHE’S IN LABOR!” while everyone around her tried not to laugh too loudly at the mighty warrior queen losing her mind over one baby.

  The labor had been long, grueling. Maia had screamed and cried, gripping Freya’s hand so tightly it left bruises.

  Freya remembered kneeling beside her, feeling helpless, whispering, “I’m here, I’m here, please… Maia, please…”

  And then…

  That tiny face.

  Raelin had let out a soft whimper, blinking up at the world with curious eyes, and Freya had burst into tears. She didn’t even try to hide it. She cried and laughed and kissed Maia all over her face, while Maia just lay there smiling, exhausted and glowing.

  She remembered carrying Maia everywhere those first few weeks—into the garden, to the window to see the stars, even to the kitchen because Maia had insisted she wanted to “feel normal again.”

  And Raelin’s first real word?

  “Baby.”

  Because that’s all he ever heard from them. “My sweet baby,” “Come here, baby,” “You’re mama’s baby,” again and again until it became part of him.

  Freya looked down now, at the woman in her arms.

  Maia looked so peaceful. She’d softened with age but still looked just as radiant to Freya as she had the day they met. Maybe even more so. The kind of beauty that grew through trials, that deepened with every laugh and tear, every storm they weathered together.

  Freya leaned down slowly, brushing a kiss across Maia’s warm forehead.

  “I love you,” she whispered, voice steady and full.

  Maia murmured something sleepy, nuzzling closer, and Freya smiled.

  In this quiet night, under the weight of stars and memories, everything felt right.

  Their love wasn’t the kind that needed fireworks or dramatic speeches. It lived in morning teas, forgotten anniversaries made beautiful, wet-pants chaos, and a hundred tiny moments stitched together across decades.

  And as Freya lay there holding the love of her life, she found herself thinking not about the eighty years they’d shared…

  …but about the hundreds more still waiting ahead.