Daphne snorted, loud and unbothered, shifting just enough to side-eye Maddie over the rim of her coffee cup.

“If you walk down the aisle to Pony, I will deadass stand up and slow clap. And Vaughn will probably join me. He lives for your chaos.”

She nudged Maddie’s foot back, bare toes brushing against her shin with zero apology.

“And seventeen-foot veil? Please. Add pyrotechnics. Add a fog machine. Go full Vegas residency. I want doves. I want a budget violation.”

She smirked, but her expression cracked when Maddie said custom toddler Valentino.

“Christ,” Daphne muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “You are not turning my child into a red carpet moment. You already bought her that tiny Gucci tracksuit and called it ‘playground casual.’ She’s one. She doesn’t have a stylist. She eats paper.”

But there was no heat in it — just affection layered under all the irritation, all the deadpan.

When Maddie’s voice softened, Daphne went still. Let her talk. Let her say it the way only Maddie could — sideways and sharp, a joke right up against the truth.

Daphne didn’t flinch at the memories. The drugstore. The Whole Foods bag. The nights Maddie called at 1:43 a.m. and never once had to ask if she could come over — just showed up. Makeup smudged, eyes glassy, needing somewhere to land.

So Daphne had opened the door. Every time.

Now, when Maddie leaned in again, head resting against hers, Daphne leaned back just enough to make it mutual.

“I’ll take that headline,” she said, voice quieter now. “Even if it comes with glitter bombs and emotional whiplash.”

The ocean filled the silence between them, steady and crashing and familiar.

Then, because sentiment was a limited-time offer in her world, Daphne cleared her throat and added:

“But if you put my daughter in a leather jacket without at least consulting me, I will retaliate by choreographing a full reception number to ‘WAP.’ With backup dancers. Possibly stilt walkers.”

She sipped her coffee again, completely unfazed.

“She’s already got the stomp, by the way,” Daphne added. “Saw her barrel over a stuffed bunny yesterday like she was walking a runway and it owed her money. So yeah — you’ll get your flower girl royalty. But don’t come crying to me when she outshines you.”

She turned her head slightly to meet Maddie’s eyes. No joke now. Just warmth.

“She misses you too,” Daphne said softly. “She looks for you every time the front door opens.”

A pause. Then, with a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth:

“And for the record? That Gucci tracksuit was fire. You have taste. Even if you weaponize it.”

They stayed like that — shoulder to shoulder, coffee cooling in the sand, sarcasm scattered at their feet like shells — and for once, the world didn’t need to spin fast.

It was enough to be here. To be them.

And to know that when it really counted, they both still showed up.

Maddie snorted so hard she almost choked on her coffee. “Obviously it was fire. Thank you. I stand by that Gucci tracksuit until the day I die. Do you know what I paid for that? It was practically a public service. Playground couture on a clearance tag. I should’ve gotten a medal.”

She tossed her hair back, mock-offended. “And besides, the kid eats paper. She deserves luxury fiber.”

Her smirk lingered, but then she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, gaze sliding out toward the horizon. “Look, everything else? It’s all whimsical hypotheticals right now. Don’t go calling E! News or whatever. I’ve gotta see how this album does before I make any big promises. Ethan’s stuck with me either way, but an actual wedding?” She blew out a slow breath. “That’s… a production. And you know how we are. It’ll take years just to plan the pyrotechnics.”

She nudged Daphne’s shoulder with her own, grin creeping back in. “So yeah, it’ll probably be a while. Which is good news for you. More time to workshop your inevitable WAP number and rehearse your slow clap for the aisle walk.”

Maddie leaned back on her hands, stretching her legs out so her sneakers dug lazy grooves into the sand. “But when it does happen?” she added, cocking her head. “You know it’s gonna be the kind of event people still talk about at reunions. Like—‘remember when the flower girl upstaged the bride?’ Because Christina will. She’ll stomp down that aisle in whatever outfit we agree on and own it.”

Her grin softened, just a little, and she glanced sideways at Daphne. “And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Daphne let out a snort, low and unbothered, her head still leaned into Maddie’s.

“‘Pony’ during your vows,” she muttered. “Bold choice. But I respect it. On-brand for a woman who once broke up with someone during the bridge of a Doja Cat song.”

She bumped Maddie’s knee with hers, sharp but affectionate, her mouth tugging into a half-smile.

“And don’t think I didn’t clock the seventeen-foot veil and rhinestone corset comment. If I get roped into wearing sequins, I’m demanding a rider and a spotlight cue.”

Then, after a beat, her eyes slid sideways.

“And Christina in Valentino? You’re lucky she doesn’t have teeth sharp enough to file a legal objection. That girl lives to destroy luxury. You remember the Gucci tracksuit incident — she wiped applesauce on it like she was baptizing it in chaos.”

Daphne grinned a little at the memory — the kind that lived at the back of a phone gallery and the front of her heart — then grew quiet for a moment.

When Maddie said I miss her, it landed. Clean. No dramatics. Just true.

Daphne nodded once. “I know.”

She twisted slightly, setting her coffee down in the sand so she could face Maddie more directly, knees drawn up, arms slung around them.

“You should come over Thursday.”

Her tone had shifted — softer now. Certain.

“Vaughn’s making dinner. He won’t admit it, but he’s been trying to impress you ever since you called his carbonara ‘ambitious’ that one time. He’s planning the redemption arc.”

Her smile curved at the edges, fond and a little smug.

“I’ll keep Christina up a little late. Let her show off. She’s in this phase where she points at people like she’s naming them for the first time, even if it’s just me or Vaughn. She gets so proud of herself — it’s like she’s casting spells.”

A pause.

“She’ll light up when she sees you.”

No embellishment. No teasing. Just fact.

Daphne reached for her cup again, the rim warm from the sun, her voice quieter now.

“I think she remembers love, even if she doesn’t have words for it yet. You’re part of that for her. So yeah—come.”

Then, because she couldn’t help herself:

“And don’t show up empty-handed. She’s obsessed with those little fruit bars now. The purple ones. I told her they’re discontinued so I could stop eating them in secret, but now she hoards them like she’s prepping for winter.”

Another sip. Another glance.

“So Thursday. Come eat. Come be loud. Come back.”

And after a moment — deadpan, back in full form:

“And if you do bring couture for a toddler, I’m putting her in light-up Crocs and calling it balance.”

Maddie blinked at her, caught off guard by the directness. Thursday. Dinner. Just like that. She wasn’t used to being told to show up anymore — not unless it came with a calendar invite and three managers cc’d.

“Wow,” she said slowly, lips quirking. “A formal invitation to Casa Owens? I’ll bring a bottle of wine, a fruit bar tribute, and maybe a fire extinguisher in case Vaughn’s redemption arc goes off the rails.”

She leaned back on her hands, grinning now. “Carbonara-gate still haunts him, huh? Good. Keeps him humble. Honestly, I should start charging consultation fees for all the men I’ve accidentally bullied into becoming better cooks.”

Her gaze softened, though, when Daphne mentioned Christina lighting up. Maddie pressed her tongue against her teeth, trying not to let it show too much, but the tug in her chest was immediate and undeniable. “God, I miss her little spell-casting finger. Kid pointed at me last time like she was saying ‘there you are’ instead of ‘that’s your nose.’ Nearly wrecked me.”

She reached up and brushed her hair back, eyes fixed on the horizon as her voice went low, real. “So yeah. Thursday. I’ll be there. Loud, probably late, and with a bag full of purple fruit bars like some kind of deranged auntie Santa.”

Then, because softness was dangerous without a swing back, she tipped her chin toward Daphne and smirked. “And for the record? If you put my god-tier Gucci gift up against light-up Crocs, I’m calling Child Protective Services. Balance, my ass. Couture is balance.”

Her laugh cracked open, bright and sharp, spilling across the sand. She shook her head, still smiling. “You know what? Forget wine. I’m bringing Christina her first tiara. Might as well start training her for world domination properly.”

And for once, Maddie didn’t couch it in nerves or disclaimers. She just meant it.