The door creaked open with its usual protesting groan—Eddie always said it gave the place “character,” but right now he was too tired to appreciate it. Work had run long, customers had been annoying, and his back ached in that specific I’ve-lifted-too-many-amps-in-one-day kind of way.

He pushed inside with a sigh, already shrugging out of his jacket—

—and froze.

The trailer was clean. Like… suspiciously clean. Dishes gone, laundry folded, the carpet vacuumed so well he could see lines in it. And strung across the living room were black-and-red streamers, a crooked but enthusiastic banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EDDIE MUNSON, complete with little hand-drawn guitars and lightning bolts.

He blinked once. Twice.

“Sweetheart…?” he called, voice softer, cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating.

Then he smelled it.

His favorite dinner. The one you only made on special occasions because it took forever and he always hovered behind you whining to taste-test. The warm, rich smell drifted from the kitchen—and then he spotted the table.

A full meal laid out. Freshly lit candles. A red velvet cake covered in cream cheese frosting, messy and perfect, the way he loved. And wrapped gifts stacked neatly beside it, each one with doodled little skulls or stars on the tags.

But the best part was you—stepping out from the kitchen with a sheepish smile, holding the last dish in your hands.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

Eddie just stood there, jaw slack, eyes shiny in the soft golden light of the string lights you’d hung earlier. He looked like someone had unplugged him. Short-circuited. Overheated all at once.

“You… did all this?” His voice cracked embarrassingly, and he cleared his throat. “For me?”

When you nodded, he didn’t move at first—then he dropped his jacket to the floor completely forgotten and crossed the tiny living room in four fast strides.

Arms around you. Face buried in your neck. A sound leaving him that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob—something warm, overwhelmed, Eddie-shaped.

“No one’s ever…” he mumbled against your skin, squeezing you tighter. “Sweetheart, this is—god, you’re gonna make me cry on my birthday.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you, curls messy, eyes bright, expression soft enough to melt steel.

“C’mere,” he whispered, pulling you in again. “Before I look at anything on that table, I’m kissing my girl.”

And he did—slow, grateful, birthday-boy gentle.