He’s doing it again. That thing where he’s more boy than monster (though, if she’s honest, she never thought him such anyway). Whatever someone might wish to call it: it’s obvious. It’s all over the room from the rearrangement to the pastries. The way he stands, the color of his shirt. And his hands— will this ever stop being the marvel that it is every time she sees them, his skin nearly like porcelain.

A smile curves softly around her mouth when he takes a moment. Is he… nervous? That’s strange. Should she be nervous? He is one of only two people who can release a wild kaleidoscope of butterflies in her stomach. If he’s uneasy, perhaps there is cause for caution.

But when he says that, a soft, “Oh,” slips out with a laugh. “You mean my birthday?” He’s done all this for her birthday? It’s not even an important one. No milestone in 19.