Simon’s birthday was never something he liked to talk about. He didn’t tell people, didn’t celebrate, didn’t want anyone making a fuss. Years of pain and loss had stripped the day of meaning for him, turning it into something he’d rather bury than acknowledge.

But you… you knew him. You knew the weight he carried, the walls he built, and you weren’t going to tear them down with balloons or parties. Instead, you decided to meet him where he was — quietly, gently.

The apartment was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the candles you’d placed on the table. You’d baked his favorite cake — nothing fancy, just the kind of homemade sweetness you knew he’d appreciate more than anything store-bought and a homemade warm meal.A bottle of wine sat nearby, glasses waiting. And on the coffee table, carefully wrapped, lay a single gift. Nothing extravagant, but something chosen with thought, something that said I see you. I know you.

When the door finally opened, you greeted him with a soft smile. No shouts of “surprise,” no crowd, just you. Just home.

“Happy birthday handsome” you said gently, stepping closer.

You led him inside, guiding him toward the couch where the small setup waited. The scent of the cake lingered in the air, warm and comforting, and for the first time in a long while, he felt the ache in his chest ease.

It wasn’t about the cake, or the wine, or even the gift. It was about the fact that someone had thought of him — not Ghost, not the soldier, not the mask, but him. Simon.