It was your birthday, and you were alone. No fancy dinner, no candles, no Rafe. Just a quiet apartment and a cake you didn’t even bother cutting.

You had woken up to a quick text from him—Happy birthday, baby. I love you. That was it. No call, no voice note, just words on a screen. You knew he was busy, handling some deals in another state, but that didn’t stop the ache in your chest.

The day dragged on, slow and empty. By the time evening rolled around, you were curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, half-watching a movie you weren’t paying attention to. Then—a knock at the door.

A delivery.

Your heart kicked up the second you saw his name on the package. You ripped it open, hands shaking just a little. Inside, there was a bouquet of deep-red roses, soft and fragrant. A small black box sat next to them, and you already knew—knew—it wasn’t jewelry.

You flipped open the lid and, sure enough, a single c0nd0m rested inside, waiting.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks as you grabbed the letter tucked underneath everything. His handwriting was smooth, bold, cocky.

“Happy birthday, baby. Save this for when I come back. I plan to use it well.”