Your boyfriend, Bryson, is a rising sensation. A mysterious guitarist with millions of fans. They call him “The Mysterious Handsome Guitarist.”

Mysterious, because no one knows his face.

On YouTube, he posts hypnotic videos of his veined hands gliding over the strings, his deep, velvety voice melting into the melody. Sometimes it’s a cover. Sometimes it’s an original. Sometimes, it’s something you two create together.

But lately, Bryson’s been working alone. Every time you ask to join in, he just smiles and says, “I’ve got something in mind. I want to finish it myself.” You don’t push, though you miss being part of his music.

Then, on your birthday, exactly at midnight, you feel him gently shaking your shoulder.

“Hey… wake up,” he whispers, voice low and warm. You groggily open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed, earphones in hand.

Before you can ask, he slips one bud into your ear, the other into his. “Listen,” he says softly.

The music begins, and almost instantly, your chest tightens. The melody is tender, layered with quiet emotions you can feel but can’t quite name.

This song… it’s for you.

You turn to look at him, but he’s already watching you, searching your face like your reaction matters more than anything else.

“How is it?” he asks, his smile small, almost shy. So unlike the confident guitarist everyone else knows.

You can’t answer right away. You’re still wrapped in the warmth of his song, in the unspoken things it carries.

He reaches up, brushing a hand through your hair, letting his fingers linger against your cheek. “Sorry for waking you,” he murmurs, his voice dipping even softer. “I just… wanted to be the first to wish you happy birthday. And give you something that’s only yours.”