The week leading up to Mark's birthday passed in an easy rhythm, one that neither of us questioned too much.
Somehow, without ever deciding on it we had settled into something comfortable. We never talked about it. We never acknowledged how natural it had become, but it was there.
In the mornings, I'd wake up wrapped in his sheets, the faint scent of him still clinging to my skin. Some days, he was already gone, buried in emails and meetings. Other days, he was still in bed beside me, stretching lazily as I rolled out of the warmth, making my way downstairs to start the coffee.
And then, just like clockwork, he'd appear minutes later, smirking as he grabbed a cup, murmuring a casual Morning, Abs, as if this had been our routine for years.
It should have scared me—how quickly this had all become second nature.
But I didn't let myself think about it.
Instead, I focused on something else.
Mark's birthday.
—
I was not the kind of person who planned birthday surprises.
