Happy birthday, sleepyhead

The morning sunlight spilled across the curtains, catching on the faint streamers that {{user}} had strung up the night before. She had tiptoed around the apartment, careful not to wake Dylan. He had fallen asleep on the couch after a late-night script read-through, still holding a pencil in his hand.

Now, as he stirred awake, his hair sticking up in every direction, he blinked against the light and frowned at the faint hum of music coming from the kitchen.

“{{user}}?” his voice was rough with sleep.

She peeked her head around the corner, a grin lighting her face. “Happy birthday, sleepyhead.”

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes before he noticed the table. A small stack of pancakes sat waiting, topped with a candle that flickered against the morning light. Balloons bobbed in the corner, and scattered across the table were little handwritten notes, each folded and marked with a tiny doodle.

Dylan’s brows lifted. “You… did all this?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she teased, walking over to hand him a mug of coffee. “You only turn thirty-four once.”

He laughed, the sound warm and easy. “You’re ridiculous.”