Birthday Girl
Chapter 188: Birthday Girl
Savannah
My sleep was interrupted by someone singing.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, Savannah.”
The sound was deep, low, and close enough that it tugged me from sleep like a gentle hand. My eyes fluttered open immediately.
Roman was sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed, the faint morning light haloing his shoulders. In his hands was a medium sized heart-shaped cake, a single candle flickering weakly.
I blinked, groggy and confused. “Oh, fuck. I’m thirty.” My palm hit my forehead. “I actually forgot it was today.”
He smiled — that calm, teasing smile that made it impossible to be embarrassed around him. “Good thing I remembered, baby.”
He extended the cake toward me. “Come on, my love. Blow the candle before the wax ruins my masterpiece.”
My heart squeezed a little. I sat up, brushed my hair off my face, and leaned in. He held my hair back gently, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck.
I closed my eyes, made a quick wish—please let this happiness last—and blew out the candle.
Roman grinned. “Happy birthday, Sav.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling back at him. “Thank you so much. But how? When did you even prepare this? It’s barely morning, and I know you didn’t order it yesterday—”
“I baked it,” he interrupted smoothly, that hint of pride curling at the edge of his mouth. “Although I also got a lot of presents for you. So you're gonna be opening presents for a long time.”
I froze, not listening to anything else he said. “You baked it?”
“Well, Reese was the actual baking pro. But I helped… bake it.” He claimed playfully.
It took half a second for that to sink in before a delighted squeal escaped me. “You both baked it together?! Oh my God, Roman!”
Roman chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s just say we have a ceasefire. For now.”
My eyes widened. “A ceasefire? You two actually managed to be in the same room without arguing or killing each other?”
He arched his brow. “Define arguing or killing each other.”
I laughed, grabbing a fingerful of frosting and popping it into my mouth. “He’s not that bad, you know. He's kind of sweet, under all the sarcasm and… testosterone.”
Roman groaned softly. “Sweet isn’t the word I’d use for Reese. More like destructive.”
He set the cake down between us and turned onto his side, resting on his elbow, watching me.
“Thank you for the cake,” I said softly, swiping another bit of frosting. This time I smeared it right across the bridge of his nose.
He froze, eyes narrowing.
“Thank you,” I added with a grin. “I love it. I love you.”
Roman’s gaze darkened, a slow dangerous smirk curving his lips. He scooped the frosting from his nose and licked it off his finger, eyes not leaving mine. “You’re going to pay for that. Sweetly.”
I squealed, scrambling off the bed. “No! You wouldn’t!”
“Try me,” he said, voice low and playful.
I darted into the bathroom, laughing breathlessly. “I’m counting on it!” I called, peeking out from behind the door.
When I came out, the air smelled faintly of sugar and candle smoke. Roman was still sitting there, half-reclined, scrolling through his phone. The candle had melted into a crooked stub.
He put the phone away the second he saw me. “Got any plans? It’s your day, after all. I was thinking dinner later—I made reservations—”
I shook my head, placing a finger on his lips. “No.”
He blinked. “No?”
I smiled softly, taking the cake from the bed and setting it down on the nightstand beside me. “I don’t want to go out. It’s my first birthday with you as… us. And—” I rested my hand on my still-flat stomach. “—our baby too. I don’t want the noise, the crowd. I just want to be here. With you. Just us three.”
He started to protest. “There’ll be no crowd. No noise. I’ll rent the entire restaurant and the surrounding neighborhood if that’s what it takes.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s tempting. But no. I want this. Just us, no one else. Let the world wait a little.”
Roman sighed dramatically and fell back on the bed. “Anything you want, birthday girl.”
I climbed over him, straddling his waist. “Come on,” I said, tugging playfully at his arm. “It’s going to be fun. We’ll eat cake, drink wine, stay in bed all day…”
He pulled his arm away from his face, eyes glinting with mischief. “And make love?”
I slapped his chest lightly. “Roman!”
“What?” He was laughing now, boyish and unguarded. “It’s a fair question, baby.”
“You’re being impossible,” I said, crossing my arms.
He smirked. “You love that about me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Maybe. But I was thinking more along the lines of—” I hesitated. “Wedding planning.”
His laughter died, replaced by a mild look of surprise. “Wedding planning?”
I nodded. “Yeah. But not like—right now. Just… talking about it. Having a little idea when we'd want to have it...”
“Do you want the wedding before or after we have the baby?” he asked, folding his hands behind his head. “You decide.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice softening. “Now doesn’t feel like the right time. There’s just so much happening. Chloe. My family. Your family.” I hesitated, lowering my voice. “Dahlia.”
His expression didn’t change. Not a twitch, not a blink. That stillness almost unsettled me. When I said Dahlia’s name and he didn't react, something inside me twisted. Either he’d finally let her go… or he’d learned how to hide her better.
I forced a smile, as if the name hadn’t tasted bitter on my tongue. “I guess there’s no rush.”
Roman reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the faint scent of vanilla still clung to his fingers. His touch was gentle and unhurried.
“Whenever you’re ready. Even if you tell me you want to get married in an hour, I’ll make it happen. Just say the word.”
My chest ached. “Thank you,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss him.
His lips were warm and steady—not desperate, not possessive, just full of quiet certainty. When we pulled apart, I stayed close, my forehead resting against his.
“This is perfect,” I murmured. “I don’t even want to move today.”
“Then don’t.”
We stayed like that for a while, tangled up in silence, the morning light creeping lazily across the room. It felt too still, too peaceful—the kind of peace that never lasts long.
Roman traced lazy circles on my thigh. “You really don’t want to go anywhere?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I want to stay here. Maybe open a few presents later, have some wine. Watch terrible movies. Maybe bake another cake.”
He chuckled. “You and Reese will definitely get along just fine.”
“I told you,” I teased. “He’s not so bad.”
Roman made a low sound in his throat, half amusement, half warning. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”
I grinned. “You’re always in a good mood when you’re around me.”
“That’s true,” he said, pulling me closer.
The rest of the morning slipped by in a haze of small moments—crumbs on our fingers, icing on our lips, stolen kisses between laughter. It was the kind of quiet I’d always wanted: soft, domestic, ordinary. I was basically living my dream.
For a while, I let myself believe we could have that.
After we finished eating, Roman got up and disappeared. I heard the faint sound of drawers opening, a low curse, and then his footsteps returning. He came back holding a small velvet box.
“What’s that?” I asked, sitting up straighter.
He handed it to me. “Open it.”
Inside was a delicate silver bracelet—thin, understated, the kind of jewelry I actually wore. Three small charms dangled from it: a heart, a book, and a tiny engraved letter S.
“Roman…”
“It’s not much. I came across it and it reminded me of you,” he said, almost shyly. “I just wanted you to have something that feels like you.”
I traced the letter with my fingertip, emotion knotting in my throat. “It’s perfect.”
He helped clasp it around my wrist, then kissed the inside of my arm, just below the charms.
The gesture was simple, but it stole the breath from my lungs. I smiled, blinking back tears. “If you keep being this sweet, I’ll start to think you’re up to something.”
Roman looked at me for a long moment. Something flickered behind his eyes—not guilt, not exactly. More like hesitation.
He brushed his thumb against my jaw. “Savannah…”
“Hmm?”
“There’s something I want to talk to you about Kingston.”
The name landed like a drop of ink in clear water—spreading slow, dark, staining the air.
My smile faltered. “What about Kingston?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor. The playful ease from earlier had drained from his face.
And just like that, the warmth of the morning dimmed.