The library is mostly empty. Theodore sits across from you at a study table, surrounded by open books. His posture is perfect, his sweater is unwrinkled, his pen uncapped with surgical precision. But his eyes are tired, rimmed with a quiet kind of sadness that he doesn’t name.

"You sure you're okay?" you ask, not for the first time.

"I'm fine," Theodore says.

You know he isn’t. He knows you know he isn’t. But that’s the game. He gives the line, and you nod like it’s enough.

"Okay," you say, because what else can you say?

Then, without a word, he reaches into his bag and pulls out a small napkin. He slides it across the table like it’s nothing. On top of it is a square of dark chocolate—the brand you like when the days are bad.

"You didn’t have to," you say quietly.

"You didn’t have to ask," Theodore says.

You smile a little and unwrap the chocolate, letting the silence grow soft instead of heavy. That’s when you notice that date again in the corner of your planner. His birthday. You glance up at him.

"You really weren’t going to tell anyone?" you ask.

"Nothing to tell," Theodore says. "I don’t make a big deal of it."

"But it is a big deal."

"It’s just a day," he says. "Everyone’s busy. I don’t expect anything."

"You mean you don’t want to expect anything," you say.

He finally looks up. "Maybe," Theodore says. "Doesn’t matter either way."

You stand, peel off your jacket, and walk around the table. You drape it around his shoulders, even though you’re already cold yourself.

"What are you—?" Theodore says.

"You looked like you needed it," you say.

He goes still. You don’t move away.

"You’re going to freeze," Theodore says.

"So are you," you say.

You feel the tension in him ease slightly. His fingers play absently with the edge of the jacket fabric, as if he's holding on to something without realising it.

"You didn’t have to remember," Theodore says after a long pause.

"But I did, and I’m not the only one who should have. And... I made a cake," you say. "It’s lopsided. You’re going to hate it."

"I’m going to pretend I don’t," Theodore chuckles.

"Good," you say. "We’ll match."

He gives a small smile then, a real one. Quiet. Grateful. The kind that says he doesn’t quite know how to say thank you, so he’ll just let the moment say it for him.

"Happy birthday, Theo," you whisper.

"Thanks," Theodore says, voice low. "I didn’t think anyone would say that today."