“No, you did it perfectly,” Mom said. She reached forward, brushing his hair back like she did with me when I was younger. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Blake swallowed hard. Nodded once.

But I saw the way his ears turned red.

When it was time for presents, he hesitated. Stared at the small pile on the table like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like it was a potential trap.

“They’re for you, silly,” I said. “You open them.”

His fingers moved carefully as he unwrapped them, like he was afraid of ruining the paper.

The first gift was from Mom—a new set of books filled with history and science. Dad’s gift was more practical, but no less meaningful. He’d gotten him a sturdy leather notebook, the kind that looked old even when it was new, with Blake’s initials carefully engraved on the cover.

“For your thoughts,” Dad said simply.

And from me—an old pocket watch I found in a thrift store one afternoon with Mom, the kind with gears you could see moving inside. I had no idea why, but it reminded me of him.

Blake turned it over in his hands, watching the gears tick. “Oh,” he said, voice soft. Then, even softer, “Thank you, B.”

Mom teared up.

Dad cleared his throat.

I just grinned and said, “You’re welcome, birthday boy.”

Later that night, after the plates were cleared and the house had settled into its familiar quiet, Blake and I sat in the kitchen, eating leftover cake straight from the pan.

I was scraping frosting off the side with my finger, making sure to get the thickest, creamiest part, when I felt eyes on me. I glanced up to find Blake watching, his fork frozen midair, one brow arched in silent judgment.

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence as I licked the frosting off my fingertip.

“That’s against the rules.”

“What rules?” I stopped mid-motion, feeling a pout creep up on my face. “You used to eat spaghetti with your fingers, so now let me have cake with mine.”

He gave me a look—the kind that was one part amusement and two parts condescension.

So I did the only logical thing.

With the subtlest flick of my wrist, I swiped a tiny bit of blue frosting onto his nose. Blake’s eyes widened slightly, and he blinked at me, completely still, as if processing the audacity of it. The silence stretched, and I held my breath, wondering if I had gone too far.

Then—boom.

A flick of his fork, and there was frosting on my cheek.

“Oh, you’re dead,” I gasped, but my heart was pounding with excitement. “You have no idea what you just started!”

“Is that a threat, or a promise?”