you didn’t invite tristan.

but there he is — standing in your living room like he owns the place, hands in his pockets, signature smirk already making your eye twitch.

“why is he here?” you whisper to your mom.

she beams. “his parents couldn’t make it, so they sent him instead. isn’t that sweet?”

you turn away before you say something not sweet.

tristan’s eyes find yours from across the room. he lifts a brow, gives a lazy wave — and then helps himself to a slice of your cake.

you avoid him most of the night, too busy with your friends, dancing, blowing candles, opening gifts. but of course, of course he finds you once the noise dies down — slipping out onto the balcony like he’s got every right to be there.

“so,” he says, stepping behind you, “no thank you for showing up?”

“no one asked you to,” you mutter.

he leans on the railing beside you, stupidly handsome in a black button-up.

“still. you look good.”

you roll your eyes. “if you’re gonna be weird, go back inside.”

he ignores that. typical. instead, he looks at you, soft and smug all at once.

“where’s my birthday kiss?”

you blink. “it’s my birthday.”

his lips tug up. cocky. deliberate.

“so, i’ll give you a birthday kiss.”