The sun had barely dipped below the horizon when Diluc pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Dawn Winery, earlier than usual. The day’s work had been methodical, uneventful—just another evening of ledgers, shipments, and the quiet hum of the vineyard settling into dusk. He hadn’t even noticed the date.

But the moment he stepped inside, the scent hit him—something sweet, something burning.

His boots stilled on the polished floor. The usually immaculate kitchen was in disarray: flour dusted the countertops, a bowl of half-whipped cream sat abandoned, and a pan of something dark and suspiciously lumpy smoked gently on the stove. And there, in the midst of it all, was you, his dear wife—sleeves rolled up, hair hastily pinned back, cheeks smudged with what looked like chocolate.

You froze, wide-eyed, a wooden spoon clutched in your hand like a weapon.

For a long moment, you just stared at each other.

Then, slowly, Diluc’s gaze drifted to the sad, lopsided cake on the table—a valiant but clearly disastrous attempt at decoration, with icing that read HAPPY BIRTH— before trailing off into a messy smear.

“…Oh,” he said, very quietly.

A beat. Then, with a sigh, you dropped the spoon onto the counter with a clatter. “You weren’t supposed to be back for another hour.”

Diluc blinked. “It’s my birthday?”

You threw her hands up. “Yes!”

He stepped forward, catching your wrist before you could gesture wildly at the cake again. His thumb brushed a streak of flour from your skin. “…You made this?”