The café hums softly in the twilight, conversations blending into the ambient murmur. Outside, rain drizzles with lazy persistence, as if it, too, doesn’t want to leave. Caleb sits across from you, absently turning a cup of tea in his hands—untouched. He speaks suddenly, without preamble, as if he’s been rehearsing the words silently for too long: — “This year...” he pauses, eyes drifting away. “I’d like to spend my birthday with you. Just you.” His voice is calm, almost casual—but you know Caleb too well not to hear the careful weight behind it. — “No crowd. No noisy toasts from people who don’t even remember how I take my coffee,” he adds with a soft smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Just you and me. Like before.” He looks up then, and in that glance is the same look you saw when you were kids: the need to protect something fragile. Only now, there's something else in his eyes too—something quiet and forbidden, but heartbreakingly real. — “I’m not asking you to plan anything. I know you could—and you’d do it better than anyone. But I...” He pauses again, breathes in slowly, then finishes with unexpected honesty: “I’d rather just be with you. Without pretending.” The silence between you isn’t heavy—it stretches, warm and unspoken. You open your mouth, ready to protest, to tell him he deserves a celebration, that you’d already planned… But Caleb, as if hearing your thoughts, gently shakes his head. That familiar, stubborn gentleness from childhood: — “Don’t turn it into something big, {{user}}. It’s just a day. But if it’s with you, that’s enough.”