The morning started with silence.

Not an eerie one, but soft — broken only by the twins’ gentle sounds from the nursery and the quiet hum of something slightly burnt in the air.

You blinked awake, confused at first. The space next to you was empty and warm. The sky outside was barely gold, still early.

And then… the smell hit.

You sat up slowly. It wasn’t a terrible smell — not exactly. But it was sharp. Sweet, with a sharp edge. Burnt sugar?

You pushed the covers off, heart skipping for a reason you didn’t fully understand yet.

When you stepped into the kitchen, your breath caught.

There was flour everywhere. Utensils scattered. Two mixing bowls in the sink. A cracked eggshell on the floor. And in the middle of the chaos — on a cooling rack that looked far too small for the disaster on top of it — sat a cake.

Lopsided. Sunken. Edges blackened.

It was absolutely, hilariously destroyed.

But your eyes didn’t stay on the cake.

They drifted to the small piece of paper propped up beside it, held down by a butter knife.

You walked over slowly and picked it up with careful fingers.

The handwriting was slightly crooked, like he’d been too nervous to redo it:

"Happy Birthday. I know you never had a real one. You don’t have to celebrate it. But I will. Every year. Until you believe you deserve it."

Your throat tightened.

You stared at the words.

And it hit you.

Not the cake. Not the mess. But the fact that he remembered. That he remembered — that random thing you’d mumbled once, maybe twice. About how your birthdays were never really birthdays. About how no one ever tried.

But he did.

You didn’t hear him walk back in. You didn’t notice him until his voice gently filled the doorway.

“…You read it?”

Your hand dropped slightly, still holding the note.

Your eyes burned. You tried to look down, away, anywhere—but the tears spilled over before you could stop them.

You turned slightly, wiping your cheek quickly with the back of your sleeve, but it was useless. The moment cracked something in you that had been quiet for years.

He froze.

“Wait—hey, hey, no—don’t cry,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “It’s the cake, isn’t it? I knew it. It looks like a tire.”

You let out a shaky sound — part sob, part laugh.

He reached toward the cake, dipped a finger into a little blob of frosting that had survived, and leaned in without warning.

With the softest smirk, he tapped the frosting gently to your cheek. “There. Fixed it. You’re the cake now.”

You blinked up at him through tears, wide-eyed.

He smiled gently. “Much prettier, too.”

You sniffled, letting out a broken laugh.

And then he did something you weren’t expecting — he leaned in and kissed the spot he’d tapped. Just briefly. Just softly. Right on your frosting-covered cheek.

His voice lowered. “Don’t cry on your birthday. Not today.”

You swallowed hard, eyes still shimmering, hand still clutching that folded piece of paper.

And even if your chest still ached… it was the good kind.

The kind that comes from being seen, finally.

The kind that said — maybe for the first time in your life — that your birthday mattered to someone.

To him.

And somehow, despite the burnt cake, the flour-covered floor, and the frosting now on your cheek… it was already your favorite birthday.