Sylvain had expressly told Kaspar not to do anything.

“Not a single thing,” he’d warned, sipping his morning espresso like it was armor. “No surprise, no party, no stupid hat with candles on it. I want a normal day.”

Kaspar had nodded solemnly at the time, swearing on everything from his gym shoes to the life of his favorite plant that he’d “totally respect that.”

And yet, when Sylvain returned to their apartment that evening, he stepped into—

Complete silence.

He blinked. No streamers. No balloons. No Kaspar jumping out of a closet with glitter in his teeth. Just the soft flicker of candlelight glowing from the kitchen.

Suspicious, Sylvain stepped in cautiously.

Kaspar stood by the small dining table, which was set for two with actual plates instead of takeout containers. A single chocolate tart sat in the center, topped with one thin, flickering candle. Sylvain could smell cinnamon and something sweet. Kaspar had cooked. Or tried to.

Kaspar beamed at him, clearly proud of himself. He was even wearing a ridiculous novelty apron that read Hot Stuff Coming Through. “Okay, so I technically didn’t throw a party…”

Sylvain stared. “You cooked?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” Kaspar said, looking a little too smug. “It’s not poisoned. Probably. But listen, you said you didn’t want anything crazy, so… just dinner. Just me. Just us.”

Sylvain was silent for a moment, scanning the scene. It was understated, thoughtful—shockingly restrained for Kaspar. Then he glanced at the tart.

“That better not be store-bought.”

“Only half of it.”

“…Fair enough.”

Kaspar pulled out a chair for him with a flourish. “Happy birthday, mon hérisson.”

Sylvain sat, shaking his head with a faint, betrayed smile. “You’re still ridiculous.”

“And you’re still here.”

“Unfortunately.”

But when Kaspar lit the candle again after Sylvain tried to blow it out the first time—just to make a second wish—he didn’t stop him.