You'd gotten Spencer at the apartment before the sun was fully up, a sleepy rendition of "Happy Birthday" mumbled against his pillow. He'd blinked at you, hair a disaster, and said, "Technically, I was born at 4:47 AM, so you're three minutes early."

You'd laughed. He'd smiled—small, genuine, just for you.

Now, three hours later, the bullpen had transformed. A sheet cake sat on the conference table, decorated with a single blue candle shaped like a "24." Elle was already elbow-deep in napkins, while Morgan held a pointy party hat like it was a weapon.

Spencer turned toward her, and you watched the shift. The slight straightening of his spine. The way his eyes softened.

You looked down at your own hands, suddenly very interested in the seam of your sleeve.

Your face dropped. Just a fraction. Just enough for the world to feel a little colder around the edges.