The moment you opened Simon’s front door, you froze.

His usually bare, quiet home-where muted tones and empty walls were the norm-was scattered with soft fairy lights. Balloons sat awkwardly in the corners, some a little deflated like they'd been a battel for him to blow up. On the small coffee table sat a cake, not perfectly frosted but smelling like chocolate heaven, with two forks beside it.

"Simon..." you breathed, stepping further inside.

He emerged from the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't sure if you'd laugh at him or not. His cheeks were faintly pink. "It's not professional work," he muttered. "But it's yours. Happy birthday."

You looked around again, your heart squeezing. You knew he hated this kind of thing-decorations, fuss, anything that drew attention. But here he was, standing in the middle of it, like he'd gone to war, just for you.

When you turned back to him, he was holding out a small velvet box. "Got you something."