#jack flaherty

PETE CROW-ARMSTRONG and JACK FLAHERTY

you think you’re spending your birthday quietly, maybe a cake with candles that lean a little to the side, a phone call from jack squeezed in between flights and hotel check-ins. he told you he’d be on the road. he sounded tired. convincing. you believed him.

so when there’s a knock at your door, you’re already smiling for someone else.

and then you open it.

jack’s there instead — hoodie, cap pulled low, duffel at his feet, that familiar crooked grin breaking like he’s been holding it back for hours. you barely get his name out before he’s pulling you into his arms, lifting you clean off the ground, laughing into your hair.

“happy birthday,” he murmurs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to cross states just to say it in person.

he doesn’t just show up — he shows up. the rest of the day unfolds like he planned it on red-eye flights and hotel stationery. reservations you didn’t know existed. your favorite flowers waiting in the car. a gift tucked into your bag before you even realize you’re carrying one. he pays for everything before you can protest, brushes off your thanks with a kiss to your temple.

“let me,” he keeps saying. “i want to.”

dinner turns into dessert turns into another surprise — a second gift, smaller, more personal. something he noticed you loved months ago and pretended not to. you realize he’s been planning this longer than he’s been away.

back home, he lights the candles himself, watches your face while you make a wish like it matters more to him than the game ever could. when you lean into his chest afterward, sugar-sweet and overwhelmed, he wraps you up tighter, chin resting on your head.

“i hate missing your life,” he admits softly. “so i didn’t.”

and later, when you’re curled together, gifts scattered, his phone finally buzzing with missed calls and reminders, he ignores it all. his attention stays on you — the way you smile, the way you relax knowing he’s here.

your birthday doesn’t feel like a day this year.