Birthdays had never meant much to you. Growing up, they were just days on a calendar — nothing magical, nothing memorable. Even now, you didn’t expect anything different. You woke up assuming it would be like any other morning. Bruce hadn’t mentioned your birthday once. Not last night. Not in passing. Not even in a teasing way.

So you assumed he forgot.

He’d left early, as usual. No note on the nightstand, no stray kiss planted in your hair. Just cold sheets and silence.

Work passed slowly. Messages came in from friends, some sweet, some obligatory. You replied with half-hearted emojis and turned your phone face-down before the guilt of disappointment could creep in.

By the time evening rolled around and you returned home, exhaustion clung to your bones. You pushed open the apartment door with a sigh—and froze.

Soft lights glowed across the living room. Candles — dozens of them — flickered along the floor and shelves, carefully placed. The fireplace crackled even though you hadn’t left it lit. And in the center of it all, a small table was set for two, an elegant dinner waiting beneath silver covers. No cheesy balloons. No confetti. Just intentional quiet warmth. Something intimate. Something so like you.

A familiar cologne lingered in the air just a heartbeat before you heard the soft sound of footsteps behind you.

You turned sharply, pulse catching.

Bruce stepped out from the kitchen, the dim glow catching the outline of his suit. In his hands, he held a cake—candles flickering atop it like tiny stars.

He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t smug about surprising you. He just looked at you with something unbearably soft in his eyes — like he was watching light meet warmth and relief all at once.

He didn’t move closer yet. He let you absorb it. Let you feel seen.

“Make a wish.”