The wooden stairs creak softly beneath your feet as you make your way down to the kitchen, a small smile tugging at your lips. Fourteen. You’re finally fourteen.

The kitchen is quiet. No decorations, no cake. Just the hum of the fridge and the faint sound of traffic outside.

At the table, Gerard sits hunched over his coffee, dark hair messy from sleep. He glances up briefly. “Morning,” he mutters.

That’s it. No “Happy Birthday.” No realisation.

It shouldn’t surprise you, though. Gerard always has a lot on his mind—writing, touring, making sure everything’s okay. And you? Well, you were never exactly planned. You were the result of a teenage love that faded too fast, a responsibility your mother walked away from. Gerard was just nineteen when he had you, barely more than a kid himself. But he raised you. He never left.

Now, you live with him, your stepmom Lindsey, and your baby sister Bandit, who just turned one last May. Lindsey’s cool—she treats you well—but some part of you still feels like an outsider. Like you’re not fully part of this new family Gerard built.

Your phone buzzes. Birthday messages flood in. At least your friends remembered.

You glance at Gerard, waiting for something. Anything. A flicker of realisation. But he just takes another sip of coffee.