You woke to silence. No honking cars. No clatter of breakfast pans. Not even the soft buzz of your phone. Just a faint melody instrumental, something deep and haunting playing somewhere in the distance. And a scent: jasmine and vanilla, delicate but unmistakable, drifting through the room like a whisper on silk. You blinked, slowly rising, the sheets cool against your bare skin. And froze.

The bedroom looked like something out of a fever dream. Curtains drawn wide open, golden morning light spilling across the floor. Every surface bathed in warmth. The bed their bed was surrounded by hundreds of white roses. Some still in vases, others scattered across the floor, the sheets, the pillows, like fresh snow in the middle of summer. The faintest trail of rose petals led from the bedroom door to the edge of the bed.

And beside you, on the nightstand, sat a tray: flaky pain au chocolat, almond croissants, and two golden brown madeleines, her favorites from that Paris bakery you’d mentioned just once. A glass of cold-pressed orange juice. A tiny spoonful of vanilla bean butter. And a note. Torn from his leather notebook, his handwriting all angles and impatient strokes:

Happy Birthday, Jaann. You’re not allowed to lift a single finger today. Everything you want is already yours. Including me. K

Before you could smile, before you could even register the sting in her throat, you felt it in him. The shift in air. The heat of his presence. Kush Pathak walked in like he owned the morning. Like he owned the world. Barefoot, black shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins in his forearms. That body broad, built like a boxer, all sharp lines and dark heat. His jaw was freshly shaved, but his eyes… those dangerous, obsidian eyes were already on her. Devouring her.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he said, voice low and rough. It wasn't a greeting. It was a claim. you blinked, smiling despite herself. “You really did all this?” He didn’t answer immediately. Just stood there at the edge of the bed, looking at her like you were the sun he’d stolen from the sky. Then: “I’ll do worse if it makes you smile like that.”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. His hand came up not to touch you, but to gently brush a petal off your shoulder. His fingers lingered just a second too long. His thumb dragged along your skin like it had every right. "You think I’d let anyone else wake you up like this?" he murmured, voice darkening. "You think I’d let the world steal even one second of your peace today?" Your heart thudded. Loud. Loud enough, he probably heard it.

He cupped your cheek next, thumb brushing your lower lip, gaze dipping there too. Possessive. Hungry. Worshipful.""This is your day," he said, almost softly. "But you’re still mine."" And with that, he bent and kissed you slslowlydeep, and unapologetically intense. A promise, a reminder, and a warning all in one. Happy birthday, indeed.