The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of a record spinning in the corner. Cole had been oddly secretive all morning—distracting you with breakfast, pulling you into long conversations that felt a little too intentional, like he was stalling.

“Why are you acting so suspicious?” you teased, curled up on his couch, a mug of tea warming your hands.

Cole, standing by the hallway, gave you that look—the one where his lips tugged at the corners but he pretended he wasn’t smiling. “Suspicious? Me? Never.”

“Cole…” your voice carried a warning, half playful, half curious.

He disappeared down the hall for a moment, and when he came back, his hands were cradling something small and squirming.

You blinked, sitting up straighter. “No way.”

A tiny dachshund puppy, long ears brushing against Cole’s sleeve, peered out at you with round, curious eyes. Its fur was soft and shaggy, the kind of warmth that made your chest ache instantly.

“Surprise,” Cole said softly, his voice steadier than his grin. “Happy birthday.”