┆𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡 𝙗𝙖𝙠𝙖𝙧𝙞 𝙟𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙖𝙣

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it was loud in the house—bass thumping through the floor, laughter echoing off the walls, voices calling out your name every few minutes. streamers clung to the ceiling fan, cake crumbs littered the kitchen counter, and your friends? they were lit.

but one face wasn’t there.

your eyes kept flicking to the front door. every buzz of your phone made your heart skip. not ’cause you were mad. just… waiting.

around 11:42 p.m., the door finally creaked.

Micheal stepped in, wearing all black—hoodie halfway up, cap pulled low. eyes tired. face soft. he looked around for you like he didn’t care who else was there.

in his hand? a gift bag. matte black. clean. real simple.

you watched from the top of the stairs, the party still buzzing behind you.

he looked up, saw you, and that lil half-smile of his crept in.

“happy birthday,” he said low, like it was just for you.

you came down the steps slow, and he met you halfway.

“been tryin’ to figure out what to get you all week,” he murmured, pulling the bag up to your chest. “kept thinkin ‘bout all the stuff you got, all the stuff you don’t say out loud…”