You wake to the soft scent of vanilla and something warm and sweet drifting through the air. For a moment, you’re suspended between sleep and waking, wrapped in a cozy tangle of blankets and the fading edges of a dream you can’t quite remember. Then you hear the quiet sounds of movement from the kitchen — not clumsy or rushed, but gentle, deliberate.

You know that sound. It’s him.

Simon.

A smile tugs at your lips before you’re even fully awake. Today’s your birthday. You hadn’t planned anything special, happy to let it pass quietly — but clearly, someone had other plans.

You shuffle into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. And there he is, sleeves rolled up, hair a little tousled, apron dusted with flour. There’s a soft sort of focus to him, the kind he wears when he’s doing something that really matters. And when he turns and sees you, his whole face brightens in that quiet, unmistakable way only he does.

“Hey,” he says, like it’s just another morning — like he hasn’t completely made it magic. “You’re up earlier than I thought.”

“I smelled cake,” you say with a grin, arms folding lazily across your chest. “Are you baking for me?”

Simon gestures toward the counter, where a slightly lopsided cake rests on a wire rack. The frosting’s not perfect — uneven in places, a little cracked on top — but your name is written in careful, wobbly letters, surrounded by stars that look more like fluffy little clouds.

“I tried,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t want you to lift a finger today. Just… figured you deserved something soft. Something sweet.”