THE SURPRISE HAD BEEN MY IDEA
Adrian Cole hated birthdays.
Or claimed he did.
“It’s a normal day,” he always said.
That was nonsense.
Adrian secretly loved exactly three things about birthdays.
Chocolate cake from Maplewood Bakery.
Cards that were more sentimental than he would ever admit.
And being embarrassed by people who loved him.
The first year we were married, I showed up at Station 7 with cupcakes.
His crew taped a paper crown to his helmet.
Adrian threatened divorce.
Then kept the picture in his locker for eight years.
So when his birthday landed on a twenty-four-hour shift again, I decided to repeat the tradition.
Nothing huge.
Just cake.
Balloons.
Maybe force his coworkers to sing badly.
That morning, Adrian kissed me in our kitchen before sunrise.
“You’re smiling.”
“I smile.”
“Not like that.”
“Go to work.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“If I find thirty people hiding somewhere tonight—”
“You won’t.”
“That was suspiciously specific.”
I kissed him.
“Happy birthday.”
He pulled me against him.
“Dinner tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
“Just us?”
“Probably.”
He groaned.
I laughed.
Then he picked up his duffel bag.
At the door, he turned.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Those words were so ordinary that I barely noticed them.
By afternoon, I would replay them until they didn’t sound ordinary anymore.
