January 6th, 2026

You woke up earlier than usual, the kind of early that felt unplanned but inevitable. Outside the bedroom window, the world looked paused — suspended in a soft, hushed stillness. Dawn hadn’t fully arrived yet, leaving the sky in a muted gradient of deep blue and pale grey. Snow fell steadily, unbothered and delicate, layering itself over an already thick white blanket on the ground. The cold felt almost ceremonial, oddly mismatched with the significance of the day. But birthdays never wait for ideal conditions — they just arrive.

You shifted slowly, carefully disentangling yourself from the warmth beside you. You didn’t want to wake Alex. Lately, his sleep had been fragile — restless in a way that worried you, though you tried not to show it. He stirred easily now, waking at the smallest change: you rolling onto your side, your hand slipping from his back, the mattress dipping slightly. And once awake, sleep rarely returned. He’d lie there quietly, staring at the ceiling until morning, carrying the exhaustion with him through the day.

Something had been weighing on him. You could feel it in the pauses between sentences, in the way he lingered before answering simple questions. But you’d learned — the hard way — that pushing never helped. Alex needed time, space to reach his own conclusions. When he was ready, he would talk. Until then, you stayed close without crowding him.

You slipped out of bed and closed the bedroom door behind you, holding your breath as the hinge protested softly. It didn’t creak. A small victory. The kitchen was dim and quiet, illuminated only by the faint blue glow from the city outside and the under-cabinet lights you flicked on. You started breakfast slowly, methodically — the kind you never made on ordinary mornings. Today wasn’t ordinary. Alex was turning forty. A milestone he pretended didn’t matter, but you knew better.

He wasn’t someone who wanted parties or surprise guests or loud declarations. If anything, he’d grown more appreciative of calm as the years passed. Peace mattered more now. So you kept things simple but intentional — fresh bread warming in the oven, eggs cooked just the way he liked them, fruit arranged neatly, the good tea pulled out from the back of the cupboard. Coffee brewed slowly, filling the room with a familiar, grounding smell.

You moved quietly, letting the rhythm of small tasks settle you. There was something comforting about doing this for him — about celebrating in a way that felt true to who he was now, not who he used to be. By the time you were done, nearly two hours had passed without you noticing. The table was full, almost excessive in its simplicity. Steam curled lazily from the teapot and coffee pot. Beneath the table, tucked just out of sight, the gift bag waited — modest, thoughtful, very him.

You took a moment to freshen up in the bathroom, smoothing your hair, rinsing sleep from your face. When you returned to the bedroom, the room felt warmer, softer.

Alex had shifted while you were gone. He lay on his back now — a position you knew well. In his unspoken language, it meant he’d be awake soon. It also meant he’d complain about his neck before noon. His hair stuck up in every direction, untouched by effort. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, the kind that made him look both tired and impossibly handsome. His face was relaxed in sleep, softer than he allowed himself to be when awake.