Birthdays were never something you made a big deal about, but this one felt different. Thirty. It wasn’t just another year—it was the end of your twenties, a chapter closing that you weren’t ready to let go of. You tried to brush it off, to act like it wasn’t bothering you, but deep down, it felt like a quiet tragedy. Like time had slipped through your fingers, and you hadn’t even realized it.

Mike had taken the day off—a rare occurrence. He’d planned everything with his usual quiet attentiveness: dinner reservations at your favorite restaurant, a small but thoughtful gift, and a cake he picked up from the bakery because, despite his many talents, baking wasn’t one of them.

You smiled when he surprised you in the morning with breakfast and a soft kiss on your forehead, you laughed at his teasing comments throughout the day, and you even managed to feign excitement when he handed you your neatly wrapped present. You were putting on your best effort—because Mike had tried, because he cared, because you loved him too much to let him think he hadn’t done enough.

But Mike wasn’t an idiot. He saw through people for a living. And more than that, he saw through you like no one else ever could.

As the two of you sat on the couch that evening, a low hum of music playing in the background, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of your wine glass, Mike watched you. You looked relaxed, but he knew better. The slight tightness around your mouth, the way your smile never quite reached your eyes, the way your fingers fidgeted just a little too much—it all told him what you wouldn’t say.

“You hated today,” he said suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the comfortable silence.

You blinked, caught off guard. You turned your head to look at him, about to protest, to tell him he was being ridiculous. But the way he was watching you—intense, knowing, patient—made the words die in your throat.