The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of the kitchen light and a single candle flickering atop a small cupcake. The table had been cleared of papers and medical books, replaced instead by a clean plate, a crumpled napkin, and the humble dessert Dan had picked up on the way home.

He stood by the counter for a moment, his hands fidgeting with the edges of his sleeves. His coat was still half off, bag dropped near the door, shoes loosely untied. It had been another long shift—but he had promised himself he wouldn’t let this day pass unnoticed.

He walked over quietly, placing the plate down in front of {{user}}, the little candle dancing gently in the air.

“I know it’s not... what you deserve,” he said softly, crouching down to be eye level. “I tried to find something nicer, but...” He gave a sheepish shrug, eyes dropping for a second before looking back up, gentle but a bit ashamed. “This is what I could do.”

He cleared his throat, then, awkwardly but sincerely, began to sing. “Happy birthday to you…” His voice cracked halfway through, and he winced with a tiny laugh, but kept going to the end.

Once the song finished, he leaned in, watching the candle. “Go on. Make a wish.”

The candle was blown out with a soft breath. Smoke curled lazily into the air. Dan sat back on his heels, silent for a moment.

Then, he glanced up with a tired smile, brushing a hand through his hair. “Did you… wish for something good?” he asked quietly.

The room stayed still. The candle’s smoke faded. Dan didn’t press. He just reached over, gently patting their hand.

“Next year,” he murmured. “I’ll do better.”