“Yes, sunshine?”
“I love you too.”
For a second, he went completely still. Then his chest rose in a shaky breath, and his arms tightened around me, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
And there, in the quiet of the night — surrounded by nothing but the sound of our breathing — I felt it.
For the first time in my life, I was whole.
We lay there wrapped in each other’s arms, our hands tracing lazy patterns over warm skin, mapping every inch we could reach. We talked and kissed for what felt like hours, the world outside fading until there was nothing left but us — soft breaths, quiet laughter, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek. I’d never felt more content in my life than I did right here, tangled up with the man I loved.
“What do you mean you don’t like lemon cake?” I gasped in mock horror.
“Fruit shouldn’t be in cake,” he said flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest twitch of amusement.
“Let me guess — you’re a chocolate cake kind of guy.”
He screwed up his face like I’d just offended him. “My favourite’s actually coffee cake.”
“Coffee cake?” I blinked at him. “Okay, yeah — it’s official. You’re completely unhinged.”
Henry laughed — that deep, warm laugh that always made my chest ache — and pulled me closer until my body melted into his.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he murmured into my hair, his breath tickling my ear.
“So,” I teased, “that means I’ll have to get you coffee cake on your next birthday.” I wrinkled my nose dramatically. “Though I might need gloves to handle it.”
“Good luck knowing when that is,” he said, smirking against my temple.
I gave him a triumphant grin. “You think I don’t know? Please. I’ve worked for you for four years — of course I know.”
But as soon as I said it, a flicker of uncertainty crossed my mind. Henry had never told anyone his birthday. He’d never celebrated, never so much as accepted a card from the team. I’d never seen anyone wish him a happy birthday — and yet, every year without fail, he’d take that one day off: November 12th.
“Why don’t you talk about your birthday?” I asked softly.
He stilled. So subtly that anyone else might have missed it — but I didn’t. I felt the shift beneath my palm where it rested on his chest.
“It’s just a day,” he said lightly, too lightly.
“Theday Henry Chase was bornis not just a day,” I said, swatting his arm gently. “It’s a day to celebrate. You wait — on November 12th, I’m filling the office with balloons so everyone knows.”
I grinned at my own cleverness, but the look on his face made my smile falter. His expression changed — all warmth draining away, replaced by something unreadable. His eyes met mine, sharp and searching.
“Why do you think November 12th is my birthday?” he asked quietly. His tone wasn’t angry, but it carried a weight that made my stomach drop.
“Because… you always book that day off,” I stammered. “Every year. I just presumed. I’m sorry — I feel like I’ve said something wrong.”
He closed his eyes and exhaled shakily, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, grounding me even as guilt twisted in my chest.
“You haven’t said anything wrong, sunshine,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to my hairline. The tenderness in thegesture soothed me, but there was something else beneath it — something heavy, unspoken.
When he spoke again, his voice was low. “November 12th is the day my mother died.”
The air caught in my throat. “Henry… oh God, I’m so sorry.” I wanted to take the words back, to erase the image of balloons and cake and my thoughtless cheer. Shame prickled behind my eyes, hot and sharp.
He tightened his hold on me as if sensing it. “Hey. Stop,” he said softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But now you know.”
He paused for a moment, and I felt his heartbeat pick up beneath my palm. “I go to her grave every year. I take fresh flowers. Maybe…” He hesitated, his voice trembling on the edge of something fragile. “Maybe you could come with me this year.”
