Gyutaro never really thought about his birthday. It was just another day, another year tacked onto his life, nothing special. No one had ever made a big deal out of it, and over time, he stopped caring altogether.

So when he walked into the apartment and saw {{user}} standing in the kitchen, a small cake on the counter between them, he just… froze.

“Surprise,” you said, a little sheepish. You twirled a fork between your fingers, like you were second-guessing yourself. “I, uh… know you don’t really celebrate, but I thought maybe—”

His chest ached.

The cake wasn’t fancy. It was small, a little uneven, like you had made it yourself. There were no candles, no decorations, just a simple thing sitting there like it belonged.

Gyutaro’s fingers curled around the straps of his bag, his throat suddenly dry. “You—” He stopped, swallowing thickly. “You made this?”