The moonlight spills through the open window, painting your resting figure in silver. Your breath is slow, steady—warm against his chest where you’ve unknowingly fallen asleep. The world outside murmurs with the quiet of 12:15 AM, but he doesn’t mind the missed countdown. He never does.

Not when you’re here, clinging to him like a lullaby.

His fingers trace the back of your hand, featherlight. A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he leans closer, whispering against your ear with a voice softer than the night air.

“Time to rise, my heart.”

He brushes a kiss to your forehead—because he is always the first to wish you. Always.

“Happy birthday, my greatest love..” He murmured, not wanting to be too loud.