He glances up from the paperwork he’d been skimming over as you enter his office, hands suspiciously hidden behind your back, as if to hide something from him. He lets out a small, tired sigh—now is not quite the time for your antics, as much as he loves you—he has an insurmountable amount of work to do, not enough time to do it in, and a crippling dependency on coffee that might be the only thing keeping him awake and upright at the moment.

He’s been so busy today, he hasn’t bothered to think about the date. He knows what day it is, of course—October 4th, his birthday—but why should he care? He’s a grown man, men don’t celebrate their birthdays—though it’s not like he celebrated as a boy, either. He’s never been the most cared for—perhaps that’s why he still finds it so difficult to accept the affections of his wife, even after all this time.

“You possess many incredible talents, my love—but unfortunately, stealth does not appear to be one of them.” He mutters, taking a desperate swig from his mug as he places the papers down on his desk. “If this happens to concern today’s date, do not bother. Understood?”