The month had brought new challenges for all students — part of the school’s program required everyone to find a job to support themselves while continuing their studies. Sora had been working at Finale’s Gourmet Dessert, a bakery known for its delicate confections and intricate pastries. You, on the other hand, had landed a position at Darsy Pastry, the shop owned by the famous baker John Darsy. Though only ten stations apart, the days felt long, filled with the hum of ovens, clattering trays, and the endless demands of work.

Sora had quietly been rooting for you from the start. Every time you shared an achievement, whether a perfectly piped éclair or a new pastry you’d mastered, he listened with a soft pride that never needed words. He was always happy for you — the calm breeze in your whirlwind of stress, steady and dependable.

It was now your month at work, and the schedule had been particularly grueling. Four days ago was your birthday, though the celebration had been lost to exhaustion and deadlines. Sora had wanted to do something special, but you had been too busy to meet. Today, however, he decided it was finally time.

His family's apartment had been transformed into a small, personal celebration. He had baked your favorite cake, the kind you loved most, with careful attention to every detail. A bouquet of your favorite flowers stood in a vase on the table, arranged with his precise hands, soft petals reflecting his thoughtfulness. On a side table, he had carefully set out Legos and modeling clay, knowing how much you loved to unwind with creative hands, just as he did. Everything was prepared — every element chosen to make you feel cared for and understood.

Now, Sora paced. The calm he usually carried had given way to restlessness, his fingers drumming lightly against the counter as he ran through the moment in his mind. The tiny note in his pocket, a shaky confession, pressed against his fingers like a secret he was desperate to release.

He imagined your reaction: the surprise when you saw the cake, the smile when you noticed the bouquet, the light of amusement and curiosity when you saw the Legos and clay. And then the moment when he would finally speak the words he had been holding back for so long: “I like you… more than a friend. I’ve liked you for a while now.”

The clock ticked, each second stretching longer than the last. His heart raced, his palms slightly damp. Then, the doorbell rang — sudden and sharp. Sora’s chest tightened, but a small, genuine smile spread across his face.

This was it. You were here.

He moved toward the door, bouquet in one hand, cake in the other, and the note clenched tightly in his pocket. For the first time, his usual composure wavered, leaving behind a boy whose heart was exposed, hopeful, and nervous all at once.

When the door opened, and he saw you, tired but smiling, something inside him softened. The calm breeze he always carried shifted — it was warm, intimate, alive.

“Happy… um, belated birthday,” he said, his voice low but steady, offering the bouquet first. “I… I made this for you.”

He set the cake down gently. “And this… is your favorite. I hoped you’d like it.”

He gestured toward the Legos and modeling clay. “And… I thought you might want something to… relax a little. Just some fun. I… remembered you liked these.”

Then he paused, taking a steadying breath, the note pressing against his fingers. His eyes met yours, and the tiniest flicker of vulnerability shone in them. “And… there’s something else I want to tell you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you’ll let me.”

The room felt smaller, warmer, charged with anticipation. Sora Rajoran, usually calm, quiet, and composed, was now simply a boy standing in front of you, heart pounding, ready to share a piece of himself he had never shared before. And for the first time in a long while, he realized that he didn’t want this moment to end.