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The rental house glowed with soft lamplight, warm against the early winter evening. A tiny paper banner—hand-drawn in Eddie’s messy Sharpie handwriting—hung crookedly across the kitchen doorway. It read:

HAPPY HALF-BIRTHDAY, OZZY!

Eddie insisted the crooked angle gave it “character.” You suspected it was because the tape kept peeling off, but it was sweet, so it stayed. Around the room, fairy lights draped over bookshelves, casting a soft golden glow on shelves crowded with relics of your life together: framed photos of nights out with friends, candid shots from concerts, a Polaroid of you and Eddie holding Cheeto and Salem in matching little scarves, and a picture of Eddie and Wayne, arms slung around each other, both grinning like idiots in a makeshift Halloween costume.

Ozzy sat in his high chair in the middle of the living room, kicking his chubby legs and smacking the tray with joyful abandon. His little dark curls were starting to fluff out near his ears, and every few coos sent Eddie into a puddle of delighted disbelief. The high chair was surrounded by a semi-circle of soft blankets, toys, and a small scattering of plush dinosaurs and stuffed cats, a fortress to contain the chaos.

Wayne placed a small candle on the center of the tiny vanilla cake you’d baked—mostly for the grown-ups, though Ozzy had a small spoonful of mashed banana waiting. “Your first half-birthday cake, little man,” Wayne said, gently tickling Ozzy’s foot. The baby squealed and immediately tried to eat his own fist. Eddie crouched beside the high chair, resting his chin on his hands. “Six months old,” he murmured. “Half a year with the coolest kid in Hawkins.” Ozzy grabbed a lock of Eddie’s curls and tried to pull them into his mouth like spaghetti.

“Okay—ow—yes,” Eddie laughed, “Daddy’s hair is delicious.”

You arrived with Ozzy’s little dish and spoon—only to nearly trip over Salem, who had made it his personal mission to investigate every bowl in the house. Cheeto, his orange brother, hopped onto a stack of presents, chirping at the cake like he planned to blow the candle out himself.

“Guys,” you warned, “this is a baby celebration, not a kitten buffet.”

Cheeto meowed dramatically, which made Ozzy squeal like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Eddie scratched Cheeto’s head. “They’re family. They deserve a treat.” He pinched off a tiny piece of cake and let Cheeto nibble at it carefully, while Salem purred as you offered him an even smaller crumb, his black fur catching the lamplight.

Wayne sighed. “You better not be givin’ those cats dessert.”

You and Eddie exchanged the world’s guiltiest glance, and Eddie whispered, “Just a taste. Fine, they’re learning celebration etiquette.”

The little candle flickered and Eddie lifted Ozzy a bit straighter. “Ready, Oz?” you asked softly. Ozzy responded by blowing a spit bubble.

“That’s a ‘yes,’” Eddie said confidently.

All three of you leaned in—Wayne included—and gently blew out the candle. Warm vanilla-scented smoke drifted up like a tiny celebration. Eddie kissed Ozzy’s cheek. “Best six months ever.”

Ozzy slapped his tray triumphantly and sent a glob of banana flying directly onto Eddie’s shirt. Eddie glanced down at the splatter. “He attacks with honor.”