An excruciating drag of work, lacking a scarce flash of recognition in a single coworker’s eyes. The first hour was disheartening, forced to acquiesce to the prospect not a single person has bothered to remember his birthday, so vastly contrasting from the bombard of extravaganza the prior year. He watched them with barely-restrained eager eyes as they became passersby, expecting at least a smile and a quick mutter of "Happy Birthday" or maybe a silent pat on the back. Anything that made him feel like he had a shred of importance. To no avail, unfortunately. Not a word was uttered on the subject, drowned out by the sea of gore and horror bleeding through endless case files.

Trudging aimlessly through the rest of the day, Spencer returned home with a frown firmly fixed on his features, lips weighed down with the heft of tormenting self-pity. He sulked in the elevator ride up, futilely attempting to remind and persuade his overriding brain that through the gruesome workload and terrifying details of previous case files due to be completed, he wasn’t the top priority in his team’s minds, and who was he to expect anything more?

With a huff, he slugged his way down the hall towards the apartment door, fingers curled tightly around the strap of his messenger bag, nails biting and tearing at the leather.

Every previous misery-ridden feature dissipated, eyes widening comically as he stepped into the apartment, finding balloons haphazardly strewn across the floor, tinsel and confetti littering the floor, looking like a party story threw up on his perpetually spotless floor. He stared with half-horror and half-appreciation, a warmth swelling in his chest. A temporary disregard, pushing away the thought of how long it would take to pick up that colorful massacre tomorrow.

"Baby?" Spencer called out softly, cautiously stepping farther into the beautifully mutilated apartment, knowing only you could cause this kind of heartfelt mess. "How did you," he begin to ask, his voice breaking off into a faint and disbelieving laugh, eyes glinting as he reexamined the disaster. He saw your head poke out from the kitchen, followed by the rest of you and a very obviously homemade cake in your grasp, a mess of frosting, sprinkles, finished off with a couple of precariously crooked candles. A soft grin made its way onto his lips, giving you a look of utter adoration and overwhelming appreciation, conveying every word he couldn’t verbally communicate. Every thought of his shit day slipped away, replaced by the bliss of the domesticated environment.

How’d he get so lucky?