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The morning sun filtered lazily through the open window, casting golden ribbons across the white linen sheets. A salty breeze drifted in from the sea, cool against the warmth of the Neapolitan morning. The soft sounds of a waking city floated in—clinking porcelain, distant footsteps on cobblestones, a burst of laughter from below.
Tim stirred, groaning faintly as he blinked his eyes open. The space beside him was empty, but still warm.
Then—off-key but unmistakably familiar—came a voice from just outside the room.
“Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday to you…”
Tim smiled before he even turned his head.
Hawk stood in the doorway, barefoot, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair a chaotic masterpiece. In his hands, carefully balanced, was a cake—a small, round thing set on a pale blue plate. It looked like something out of a dream.
“Happy birthday, dear Skippy…, happy birthday to you.” Hawk finished, voice softer now as he walked over and crouched beside the bed.
Tim sat up slowly, the sheet slipping to his waist. “Oh my god, Hawk, this looks amazing.”
“Only the best for my angel,” Hawk said and kissed the tip of Tim's nose. “I ordered it from that bakery near the square. The one that smells like butter and heaven. I told the baker that I want the cake to look like sunshine so it would resemble you.”
The cake was simple but exquisite—light lemon cream, rippled with glossy lemon curd that shimmered in the sunlight. Candied lemon slices fanned across the top like sunbursts, nestled among tiny white flowers with yellow centers. It smelled like summer and something sacred.
Tim stared at it, then up at Hawk. “You’re such a sap.”
“I’m your sap,” Hawk replied, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Now shut up and try it before the kids FaceTime and they will see we are still in bed and call us “acting gross” again.
Tim laughed. “Alright, alright. But they should be grateful their parents still feel like lovesick teenagers after fifteen years of relationship and ten years of marriage.’”
“You’re right, my angel,” Hawk said with a fond smile, sitting cross-legged on the bed and picking up two forks. “Now let’s get to the business.”
They ate in contented silence for a few minutes, passing the plate back and forth, trading bites. The cake was bright and creamy, tart at the edges and soft in the center. Each spoonful felt like heaven.
“This is so good I might cry,” Tim murmured, licking a bit of cream from his bottom lip.
Hawk tilted his head, watching him. “You’ve got a little…” He reached out, swiped a fingertip through the frosting, and dabbed it gently onto Tim’s nose. “…there.”
Tim froze.
“Hawkins Zebediah. You wouldn’t dare.”
Hawk just grinned. “Oh, but I did.”
Tim lunged, dropping the fork onto the plate with a clink. He caught Hawk around the waist, dragging him down onto the bed with a thud. The cake wobbled dangerously on the mattress but stayed upright—barely.
Hawk laughed breathlessly, trying to roll away. “I regret nothing!”
“You’re going to regret it,” Tim muttered, catching his face between his hands and smearing a streak of lemon curd across his cheek.
They were both laughing now, caught somewhere between play and something heavier, something warmer. The taste of citrus clung to their lips, and the heat between them shifted.
Hawk kissed him first—quick, sweet, then slower, letting the moment melt like sugar.
Outside, the breeze rustled the curtain. Inside, the cake cooled on the plate, and the sheets tangled further as kisses deepened, hands roamed, and the morning slipped into something softer, hungrier. Turns out the cake taste even better from the warm skin of your husband.