Nanami stares at it for a moment over the rim of his coffee.

A click of the mouse deletes it.

The rest of the day carries on as usual.

His chair creaks the same way when he sits down. The copier jams twice before noon. Someone forgets to attach a file to an email and replies all to apologize. By lunch, the sky outside has turned a pale gray, a normality of the summer.

He goes to the bakery near his office because he always does on Fridays.

The bell above the door gives its familiar chime. The woman at the counter greets him with the same polite smile. The shelves are lined with milk bread, fruit danishes, curry pan, neat little cakes tucked behind glass. Nothing is different. No one knows. No one has any reason to.

“One ham and cheese croissant?” she asks.

“Yes, please.”

He almost adds a slice of cake, then decides against it.

It is not that he dislikes his birthday. The 30-year old man has simply learned not to expect much from it. Another year older, another year worked through, another day folded into all the others. There is comfort in routine, he tells himself. There is dignity in not needing to be celebrated so openly.

Still, when his phone buzzes in his coat pocket, his thumb reaches for it a little faster than usual.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: are you on your lunch break yet?

Nanami’s hardened expression softens before he can stop it.

kento <3: I am.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: did you eat?

kento <3: I’m eating now.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: good. don’t just drink coffee and call it lunch.

kento <3: I have never done that.

A few seconds pass.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: you have absolutely done that.

He can hear your voice in the words, always warm and teasing. It makes the bakery feel less gray, despite the rain beginning to mist against the windows.

kento <3: I bought a croissant.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: proud of you!

He glances at the small paper bag in his hand, then back at your message.

kento <3: Thank you.

The conversation drifts in and out through the rest of the afternoon. You ask him if work is boring. He tells you it is impressively boring. You send him a photo of the living room rug with your socked feet at the edge of the frame, claiming that you are “very busy with important household matters.” He replies that he can see the television remote beside you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: evidence means nothing without context.

kento <3: Spoken like someone hiding from laundry.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: wow. on your birthday too?

He pauses.

No one at work has said it out loud. Not his supervisor, not his coworkers, not the man from accounting who spends fifteen minutes discussing the weather by the coffee machine. Yet there it is, glowing softly on his screen in your little blue bubble.

He types, erases, then types again.

kento <3: I’ll be home at the usual time.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: okay. text me when you’re close.

The train ride home is crowded but not entirely unbearable. Nanami stands near the doors with one hand around the pole, his work bag resting against his leg. The windows reflect the tired faces, dim carriage lights, the blur of the city slipping by in streaks of silver and gold.

His phone buzzes again.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: close?

kento <3: About ten minutes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: okay don’t rush.

kento <3: I’m on a train.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my darling: then emotionally don’t rush.

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. A woman seated nearby peeks up, then returns to her book.

kento <3: I’ll do my best.

By the time he reaches your building, the rain has softened into a fine drizzle. It clings to the shoulders of his coat and dampens his blond hair at the temples. The lobby smells faintly of floor polish and someone’s dinner from upstairs. He checks the mailbox out of habit, finds only advertisements and a folded notice about maintenance, then takes the elevator up.

Everything is familiar.

The hum of the old light fixture in the hallway. The slight unevenness of the floor near your door. The sound of his keys as he pulls them from his pocket.

For a breath, he stands there, fatigued down to the bone in that quiet way he never likes to admit. His birthday has been ordinary. Fine, even. Nothing terrible happened. Nothing wonderful either.

Then he unlocks the door.

The apartment is dark except for the warm amber glow coming from the kitchen.

After kicking off his shoes, your boyfriend steps inside and stops.

You are standing a few feet away, holding a small cake with both hands. A single candle flickers in the center, its light trembling over your face, catching in your eyes, painting your smile in gold. You are wearing one of his sweaters, the sleeves bunched around your wrists, and there is a little smear of frosting near your thumb.

For once, he does not immediately know what to say.

“Happy birthday, Kento,” you whisper.

The apartment smells like vanilla, sugar, and the dinner you must have kept warm on the stove. There are folded blankets on the couch. His slippers are waiting by the entryway. A small stack of plates sits on the coffee table beside two forks and a few napkins, arranged with so much care that his chest grows tight.

“You made this?” he asks softly.

You peep down at the cake, suddenly shy. “I tried to. It’s a little uneven.”

Nanami looks at the candle, then at you.

“It’s perfect.”

Your smile wobbles into something brighter. “Make a wish before the wax gets in the frosting.”

He sets down his bag and steps closer. The flame dances between you. For a moment, he thinks about the day behind him. The dry email. The quiet lunch. The dull ache of routine. All the little ways the world had moved on without pausing.

Then he looks at you, standing in the warm light of your shared home, holding a cake like his life is worth gathering sweetness around.

The blond closes his eyes.

He does not wish for much. He has never been greedy with happiness.

But he wishes for this.

For your socked feet padding across the floor in the mornings. For your messages lighting up his phone during long afternoons. For the scent of vanilla in the kitchen and the soft press of your shoulder beside his on the couch. For birthdays that end with candlelight and your voice saying his name like it belongs in the safety of you heart.

He blows out the candle.

The room falls dim for half a second before you cheer quietly, as if being too loud would spoil the serenity with the whole universe.

Nanami laughs under his breath and reaches for you. His hand settles gently at your waist.

“Thank you,” he says.

You lean into him, cake still balanced between you. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

“I wasn’t talking about the cake.”

Outside, the rain patters lightly against the windows. Inside, the apartment is warm, and the evening opens around him as a gift he did not know how badly he wanted.

Nanami kisses your forehead. This time, when the corners of his mouth turn upwards into a smile, he lets himself keep it.