You wake to the scent of fresh coffee and the quiet rustling of someone trying — very badly — not to wake you.

Scarlett’s failing. Spectacularly.

You open one eye.

“I told you I was gonna make breakfast,” you mumble, voice raspy from sleep.

“And I told you it’s your birthday,” she whispers, her voice soft as she places a tray beside you. “So shut up and eat like the spoiled wife you are.”

You blink. Pancakes. Strawberries. A candle. Not one you can blow out — a real candle. White wax, already dripping.

“Scarlett, this is—”

“Don’t say too much or I’ll cry and then your birthday will be about me.”

You snort. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

She climbs into bed beside you, legs under the covers, head against your shoulder. She’s in your hoodie. Her hair’s in a loose braid that she definitely did herself, badly.

It’s perfect.

“You remember your birthday last year?” she asks.

You nod. Quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I was in Prague. You were pretending not to be sad.”

You lean your cheek on her hair. “I wasn’t pretending very well.”

“No. You weren’t.”

She kisses your neck. Just once.

“I hated that I couldn’t be there. So this year…” she gestures at the tray. “Breakfast. And we have the whole day. Just us.”

“You canceled your press stuff?”

She nods.

“I love you more than any premiere,” she says seriously. “Even the Avengers ones.”

You smile. Wide. Giddy.

Then she adds, “…Okay maybe not the first Iron Man one, that was iconic—OW!”

You’ve smacked her with a pancake.

She laughs, mouth open, eyes shining.

“You’re the worst romantic,” you say, even as you climb into her lap.

“But you’re in love with me,” she grins.

You can’t even argue with that.

Because you are.

God, you are.

And today — on your birthday — she makes sure you never forget it.