Birthdays had never been much to you. Growing up, the day always slipped by quietly, unnoticed. No candles, no presents, no warm voices remembering. Sometimes, you almost convinced yourself you didn’t care. If no one expected it to matter, then maybe it didn’t.

But deep down, it always left a bruise. A small ache that never fully healed.

So when you woke up that morning with Simon by your side, a flicker of hope sparked inside you. Maybe this year would be different. Maybe this time, someone would remember. You checked your phone throughout the day, waiting for a message, a call, anything. Yet the hours dragged on in silence. Simon, your steady, ever-present anchor, didn’t reach out once.

By evening, that old ache had crept back in. The rational side of you tried to remind yourself—you’ve never expected much. He doesn’t know birthdays matter to you. You shouldn’t care. But the hurt whispered louder. Wasn’t love supposed to mean he saw you? That he noticed what no one else ever did?

When you pushed the door open that night, weariness clung to your body. You didn’t expect much; maybe he’d still be gone, maybe asleep. Maybe nothing at all.

But the second you stepped inside, the world tilted.

The air was thick with the smell of food—rich, comforting, layered with spices you knew he had gone out of his way to figure out. Flowers sat on the counter, not perfectly arranged, but bright and alive, and in the center of the table, three cakes waited, each one a little uneven but beautiful in their own right.

And behind them stood Simon.

His mask was tugged just enough to reveal his mouth, the faintest curve of a smile there. His broad frame filled the room, his stance almost awkward, as if unsure how you’d react.

“I didn’t know which one you wanted,” he said, his voice low, quiet but steady. “So I made all three.”

For a moment, you couldn’t move. Your chest tightened, your throat burned. All those years of never being seen, never being thought of, pressed in on you all at once—and here he was, standing in front of cakes and flowers and the effort of a man who had never been good at showing emotion, but was trying with everything he had.

His shoulders tensed, a flicker of hurt in his eyes before he stepped closer. He reached out, rough fingers brushing along your arm, grounding you with that steady, unshakable presence. “Never,” he murmured. Just one word, but it carried the weight of everything he struggled to say.

You leaned into him, pressing your forehead against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, solid and protective, and in that silence you found your answer. He could vanish from the world for days, but he’d never vanish from you.

“Shall we?” He offers, his hand gesturing to the table.