You’d been dating Simon for almost five months when the topic of his birthday finally came up. Not because he told you—it slipped out one quiet evening on the couch, tucked beneath one of those rare moments when his walls lowered just enough for you to peek inside.

You asked casually, “When’s your birthday, anyway?”

He hesitated, eyes flicking toward you with something unreadable behind them. “Doesn’t matter.”

That, of course, meant it mattered a lot.

It came out a little later, in that gruff tone he used when he was trying not to make a big deal out of something. “August third,” he said eventually, not looking at you.

The first thing you did was log it in your phone, with a heart next to it. The second was promise yourself you’d make it special—because you love birthdays. Always have. Cake, streamers, gifts—surprises that make people feel seen, known, celebrated. You live for it.

But when his birthday started creeping closer, Simon became… weird.

“You don’t need to do anything,” he warned you one night as you both folded laundry together. “Seriously. I’m not into all that.”

“All what?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Balloons. Cakes. Banners. Gifts. Just… don’t waste your money on me.”

You put down a sock and leaned against the counter. “I’m not wasting anything, Simon. I want to celebrate you.”

“I didn’t grow up with all that. And in the army, birthdays were just another day.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m not used to having things like that.”

Your heart ached, not just for what he said—but for all the years he hadn’t been celebrated like he should’ve been.

So you nodded. You kissed his cheek. You said, “Okay.”

But you didn’t mean it.

⸻

August third arrived.

Simon thought he’d successfully dodged it. You told him you’d keep it quiet—“No party, no pressure.” He believed you.

That morning, he found his favorite coffee already made the way he likes it. That wasn’t too unusual, so he didn’t comment. Then there was the breakfast—full breakfast, eggs, toast, everything hot and ready when he got out of the shower.

“Bit much for a Thursday, yeah?” he asked with a raised brow.

You only smiled. “Figured I’d spoil you a little.”

Then came the first gift: a limited edition military-grade multitool with his initials engraved in the handle.

“This is… fancy,” he said, inspecting it like it was made of gold.

“Useful too,” you replied. “No balloons yet, I promise.”

He tried to act cool, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch up.

Then came the second gift: a soft, worn leather journal. The kind that looked like it could hold years of thoughts, memories, things he never said out loud.

“I figured if you ever wanted to write stuff down,” you said softly. “Even if it’s just shopping lists.”

He was quieter with that one. Held it like it was fragile.

But you weren’t done.

That evening, you led him into the living room, where the lights were dimmed and his favorite music was playing low through the speakers. No guests, no loud surprises. Just you. And a small table covered in wrapped presents, each one handpicked: his favorite cologne, a vintage copy of one of the war novels he used to read, a hoodie two sizes too big because he always stole yours, and—

“You didn’t,” he said, pausing at the cake.

You grinned. “I did.”

It wasn’t anything wild—no neon frosting or towering tiers. Just a simple chocolate cake with minimal decoration. On top, it read:

“To Simon — You’re Here. That’s Worth Celebrating.”

He stared at it for a long time.

“I told you not to do this,” he said finally, his voice a little rough.