It was past midnight by the time I finally walked through the door.

My jacket hung limply over my arm, tie half undone, shoulders aching from hours of back-to-back meetings, investor calls, and one PR disaster that nearly set the whole day on fire. My phone was still buzzing somewhere deep in my pocket, but I didn’t care. I wanted silence. Just five minutes of peace before I collapsed.

I kicked off my shoes without looking and rubbed my eyes, already dreading the 7 a.m. board meeting. My mind was still spinning—figures, projections, deadlines—when I caught something out of place in the corner of my eye.

Soft light.

I froze, blinking toward the kitchen.

At first, I thought maybe a light had been left on. But no—it was something else. Warm, flickering candlelight danced across the walls, mixed with a dim strand of fairy lights strung haphazardly above the cabinets. Balloons were tied to the backs of chairs, a hand-written banner that read “Happy Birthday!” drooping slightly where one end had come loose.

And then I saw her. Curled up in the chair at the head of the table, arms tucked under her head like a child who'd waited too long to stay awake. Her makeup was faintly smudged at the edges. She had changed into that soft blue dress I bought her last fall—the one she knew I liked.

The kitchen smelled faintly of frosting and disappointment. A small cake sat on the table, candles melted down to nubs, wax pooling onto the icing. Two plates. Dinner for two—untouched, cold. And suddenly, everything in my chest caved in.

Fuck.

I staggered a step back, like the weight of it physically hit me. I didn’t forget her birthday. No, I completely erased it from my mind. There was no calendar reminder. No call during the day. No message. No gift. Not even a goddamn text. I had been so consumed—so fucking buried in work—that I didn't see what day it was.

She’d waited for me. Set this all up. She’d probably checked the time every ten minutes, thinking, He’s just running late. He’ll walk through that door any second now. And when I didn’t… she just sat here. Until exhaustion won. And I had walked in like a storm cloud. Angry. Self-absorbed. Oblivious.

I stared at her as guilt twisted in my gut like a knife. She looked so peaceful sleeping there, so quiet, and I hated that peace came only after she'd cried herself tired. I could see the edge of a tissue under her arm. Her phone next to the plate, the screen still lit from the last time she checked it.

I crouched down beside her, hesitant. Scared, even. My hand hovered just over hers. What the hell had I become? I used to count the hours until I could come home to her. Now I’d become the man who left her sitting alone on her birthday."Baby..." My voice cracked before I could even finish the word. “I’m so sorry.”

She stirred slightly, her brow twitching, but didn’t wake up. Good. Because I don’t know if I could handle the look in her eyes when she opens them. Not yet. I gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, heart sinking deeper with every second. I should’ve been here. More than that—I should’ve made her feel like she was the only thing that mattered today. Because she is. And I forgot.

How did I let it get this bad? It wasn’t just tonight. It was the dinners I canceled, the phone calls I ignored, the mornings I left before she even opened her eyes. Slowly, without even noticing, I had stopped showing up. For her. For us. I used to tell myself it was temporary. “Just until this deal closes.” “Just until the next quarter.” “Just until things calm down.” But the truth is, there’s always going to be another deadline. Another crisis.

And if I keep choosing them over her—I’ll lose her. The thought hit me so hard I had to grip the edge of the chair to stay grounded. I looked around the room again. The little banner. The candles. The cake she probably baked herself because she knows I like her recipes more than anything store-bought. She had done all this for me, on her birthday.