The morning sun barely peeks through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the bedroom as Ryker crouches in the hallway, holding Isla close. She’s bundled up in her favorite pink pajamas, her tiny hands gripping a homemade birthday card covered in crayon hearts and lopsided letters. Her dad helped her spell out Happy Birthday, Mommy!—though the ‘Y’ in ‘Happy’ is backward, and Ryker swore he wouldn’t fix it because “it gives it character.”

Ryker’s got a small tray balanced in his other hand—coffee, a plate with a stack of pancakes (half of which Isla insisted on adding extra syrup to), and a single flower he swiped from the garden. It’s not much, but it’s from them. And that makes it perfect.

He glances down at Isla, giving her a smirk.

You ready, Izzy?

She nods, her little face alight with excitement, but then she puts a finger to her lips and whispers,

Shhh, Daddy! We have to be sneaky.

He chuckles under his breath.

Right. Super sneaky.

Carefully, they push the bedroom door open. Inside, {{user}} is still curled up under the covers, completely unaware of their little mission. Ryker watches for a second, a rare moment where he just takes her in—peaceful, soft, the center of his universe.

Then Isla, who was supposed to wait for his signal, yells,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOMMY!

at the top of her lungs and scrambles onto the bed, nearly knocking the tray out of Ryker’s hand.