James was an expert at keeping secrets. Decades of spycraft, survival, and sheer stubbornness had made him nearly impossible to crack. And one of the things he was most determined to keep hidden? His birthday.

Not because he hated it—well, not entirely—but because he didn't want people making a big deal out of it. He didn’t need a surprise party or a dozen people singing at him. He didn’t want to be reminded of how many years had passed, how much had been lost, how time had moved in ways it shouldn’t have for him.

So, when you had asked him—early on in your relationship—he had just shrugged and muttered something vague about “not really celebrating it.” You had let it slide, but James should’ve known better. You were curious, determined, and worst of all for him, incredibly good at finding things out.

It had taken some digging, but eventually, you figured it out. March 10, 1917.

And since then, every year, without fail, he would wake up on that morning to find a single cupcake and a small wrapped gift sitting on the kitchen counter. No fanfare, no expectations—just a quiet acknowledgment that you knew. That you cared. That he mattered.

At first, he had been suspicious. Then a little exasperated. But now? Now, as he stood in the Sentinels Tower kitchen in the early hours of the morning, staring down at the familiar sight of a cupcake with a tiny flickering candle, warmth spread through his chest.

A simple note sat beside it:

Happy Birthday, James. Love you.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a small, helpless smile. You were impossible. And he loved you for it.