It was a quiet evening in the apartment you shared with Neil.

He sat in the living room, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, the other balancing a white carton of noodles—the kind you could only get from those rundown, questionably clean takeout joints that somehow managed to taste like heaven. Another carton, untouched and neatly packaged, sat waiting on the coffee table in front of him.

You were tucked away in your room, studying, as usual. It worried Neil as much as it frustrated him. You needed breaks, more excitement, more life outside of your relentless work. Though, he couldn’t exactly criticize—you spent your nights buried in textbooks while he spent his getting lost in daydreams through a screen. But it was different with you. It mattered more. Your birthday was coming up, and he needed to get it right. Needed to make it special. Maybe even win you over.

He had this fantasy—one he cradled quietly in the corners of his mind—of you falling head over heels for him because of the perfect gift. He imagined scooping you up, spinning you around, and kissing you breathless, until you were laughing too hard to stand.

But that was just a fantasy. He knew it. Knew how impossibly out of reach it was.

Still, when he heard the soft click of your door opening, a thrill stirred in his chest—warm and sudden, like the sun breaking over a sleeping horizon.

He leaned back to peer down the hall, finishing the bite he was chewing when his eyes landed on you. God, you looked beautiful. Tired, but beautiful.

His heart ached with the need to cross the room, to gather you against him and run his fingers through your hair until you drifted off in his arms. You never took care of yourself the way you deserved. If you let him, he'd take care of you.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice low and fond, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Got you your order."

God, he wished he was your boyfriend.