The early morning light streamed through the linen curtains of their Malibu villa. YN tiptoed into the bedroom, a tray in her hands carrying pancakes shaped like the number 31 and a cup of black coffee—just the way he liked it. She leaned down, brushing his hair back gently.

She whispered, “Wake up, old man. You’re officially 31.”

Drew groaned and pulled the covers over his face. “Nope. Not doing it. I’m retiring. No more birthdays.”

She laughed and set the tray beside him on the bed. “Too bad. You’re famous, remember? The world has watched your face age like fine wine for ten years now. You don’t get to disappear.”

He peeked out from beneath the covers, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he sat up and eyed the pancake numbers. “You made these?”

“Of course,” she said with a smug smile. “Didn’t even burn them this time. That’s love, Starkey.”

He chuckled and tugged her gently into his lap. “You’re the best birthday present I’ve had in all thirty-one years.”

Their lips met in a soft kiss—unrushed and familiar. The kind of kiss that came from knowing someone deeply, from late nights on set and early morning coffee runs, from years of inside jokes and shared dreams.