I knew from the beginning that she didn't want to make a big deal out of her birthday. No surprise party. No twenty people in some overcrowded restaurant or rented hall. No entire evening where she's forced to be the center of attention.

“I just want to have dinner with the people I love.” She'd told me a few weeks ago. She had looked at me as if it's the most obvious thing in the world that I'm one of them.

So I took care of it.

The food was ordered, the table was set, champagne and wine were ready, and now there's a cake on the table that I'm actually pretty proud of.

Well. Of course, I'm not completely responsible for it. Her mother helped me.

If it had been up to me, I probably would have ended up with something else entirely, but definitely not a cake.

While she had been out in the city with her friends that morning, the two of us had stood in the kitchen and tried to make her favorite cake.

I had flour everywhere flour could possibly get, and she made fun of the way I was decorating it.

But {{user}} doesn’t need to know that.

I place my hand on her thigh and draw slow, gentle circles on her skin while she watches the cake with a smile, the candles she just blew out still standing on top of it.

“I baked it.” I murmur into her ear and kiss the spot right behind it. “Happy Birthday, baby.”

She grins and looks at me. “Thank you. You baked it?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes widen a little. “You baked a cake? For me?”

I shrug, even though I’m secretly pretty pleased with myself. “I’m just a good boyfriend.”

She grins and kisses me softly. Everything is exactly the way she wanted it.

Nobody is turning her birthday into some huge event. It’s cozy enough that she doesn’t feel like she has to perform.

“Do you guys remember when she got those white shoes when she was ten?” Her mother starts.

Her face immediately changes. “Oh no. Mum. Please.”

Her mother is already grinning. “She was so proud of those shoes. Brand new. White. She bragged about them for about ten minutes.”

“I did not brag.”

“You did.” Her sister joins in. “You even walked past us and told us our shoes were ugly and that you have the prettiest ones.”

I look at her and grin. She presses her lips together. “That doesn’t sound like me.” Her mother nods. “That was exactly you. And then she fell outside on the path.”

“Flat on her face.” Her brother adds dryly.

I can’t hold it in anymore and start laughing. “You got karma.” She looks at me, offended. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side. But that’s funny.”

She laughs and nudges my shoulder with hers. That’s exactly what I love about her.

She can laugh at herself. She can let her family tease her and for a few minutes, simply be the child she once was.

But after a while, I notice the change. It’s nothing dramatic. Just something small.

Her laughter becomes quieter. She leans back a little further. Her gaze drifts to the side more often, as if she’s slipping away from the conversation.

I know her well enough to notice. A few minutes later, she sets her glass down. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Then she gets up and disappears down the hallway. I stay seated. I know she sometimes needs a little quiet.

Not because she doesn’t like someone or because she’s annoyed. And certainly not because something happened.

But because, at some point, there are too many voices, too many conversations and too much attention all at once in her head.

Five minutes alone can sometimes do more for her than an hour anywhere else.

I stay with the others for a few more minutes, half listening as her sister tells another story about her.

“I’m going to check on her.” I say, standing up.

I find her in the kitchen, standing by the counter. I walk straight over to her and take her hands, lacing my fingers through hers. “Everything okay?”

She looks down at our hands for a moment. “I think I’ve become boring.”

I furrow my brows. “What?”

“I canceled on my friends today. They were looking forward to going to a club or something…”

“And?”