The first sign was the balloon.

Tied to your chair with tape and an uncomfortable amount of commitment, it bobbed gently with every breeze. Bright red, a little deflated with a doodle of Reno's face poorly drawn on it.

You did not even need to ask.

He strolled in minutes later, carrying two drinks and a half-crushed paper bag like he had just rolled out of trouble.

"Stole the balloon from some unfortunate kid in Sector 8," he said, casually. "He cried. I ran. Worth it."

The grin he gave you was wolfish, proud and entirely unapologetic. Very Reno-like.

"Anyway. I remembered. You think I forget birthdays? Please. I have a calendar now. Very grown-up."

He kicked the chair across from you, dropped the bag on the table and sat backwards in it like he was about to interrogate you, except the tone was too warm.

"Got you your favorite. Probably. Unless I messed it up, in which case... happy intentions, I guess?"

He said it like a joke but there was something steadier underneath.

No flashy speech. No candles. Just Reno, chaos incarnate, showing up with stolen party favors, cheap food and that crooked grin.

And somehow, it felt like exactly what you needed.