Page 128 of Drunk On Love

Why do rich people have homes so massive they need a lift just to get to a damn terrace? A normal terrace is a staircase away. But here I was, taking an elevator for some fresh air like I lived in a mall.

And then… I opened the terrace door.

Holy. Shit.

Breathe, Kiara.

There were balloons. Fairy lights strung like fireflies across the night sky. A table full ofgifts. Likeactual wrapped gifts—the kind I always begged for as a kid, because they were the only distraction from the fact that Mom died today.

My breath hitched. My legs wobbled. My eyes blurred.

I tried to grab something—anything—to keep myself steady, but before I could collapse into the moment…

I felt a warm hand steadying me. Manav.

He hugged me from behind, arms around my waist, chin resting gently on my shoulder. He didn’t say anything. Just let me feel it. The lights. The air. The magic.

I know you’re not supposed to cry on your birthday. Itriednot to. I tried so damn hard to be normal. But grief doesn’t care about dates. And nostalgia doesn’t read calendars.

The tears came. And they didn’t stop.

Manav turned me into his arms, and I justclungto him. One hand holding me tight, the other stroking my hair like I was glass he couldn’t afford to shatter. My sobs were ugly and messy, and I didn’t know if they were from sadness or joy or relief. Maybe all three.

He didn’t say a word. Just kissed my temple between every shaky breath, wiping away the tears without asking me to stop.

After what felt like both forever and only a second, he whispered, “Is it too much?”

I looked at him through blurred lashes, his eyes just as red, just as soft. I smiled through my wet face. Pressed a kiss to his lips. And in that moment, with fairy lights twinkling above us and grief tangled in love’s arms—I knew.

This wasn’t just a birthday.

This washealing. This washome.

I was still sniffly. Still snuggled against Manav’s chest like some overcooked potato with feelings.

But I didn’t expect what came next. Manav slowly pulled away from the hug and reached into his hoodie pocket.

Now, when a man reaches into his pocket on a rooftop lit by fairy lights after you’ve ugly cried into his chest, twothings can happen:

1. He pulls out a tissue.

2. He proposes.

My heart went into a full-blown salsa routine.

But instead of a ring box…

He pulled out…

Acheeseball.

“You brought a cheeseball… up here?” I blinked.

He nodded solemnly. “The last of the batch. I was going to use a ring,” he shrugged. “But you’re not exactly a diamond girl. You’re a cheeseball girl. And I figured… You deserve a proposal that feels likeyou.”

My jaw dropped.

I blinked. My voice cracked. “You mean—chaotic, salty, and kind of falling apart?”