𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 | 𝐣𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧

𝟎𝟎

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟐

𝘙𝘜𝘉𝘠 𝘏𝘌𝘕𝘋𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘖𝘕 was awoken by the soft, rhythmic buzz of her alarm clock. golden light streamed in through the floral curtains, painting her pillow with morning sunshine. her lashes fluttered open and, before she could even remember what day it was, a bright smile bloomed across her face. today wasn't just any day.

today was her birthday.

with the kind of energy only a child on the morning of her birthday could possess, ruby threw back the floral duvet and bounced out of bed, her toes curling against the cool wooden floor. she skipped the slippers, as always, and darted out the room, her heart already racing with anticipation.

the air smelled of cinnamon pancakes, vanilla candles, and something else—something that felt like home. like warmth. like love. soft jazz played from the kitchen radio, mingling with the clinks of cutlery and the rustle of newspaper pages.

as ruby bounded down the stairs, her laughter rang out like wind chimes in spring.

"nan!" she called out, turning the corner into the cozy kitchen where pastel streamers hung lazily from the ceiling, and balloons bobbed as if they were as excited as she was.

liz turned, holding a whisk in one hand, her face glowing. don looked up from the newspaper, his glasses sliding down his nose as he grinned at the sight of her.

"there's our birthday girl!" liz beamed, arms open wide.

ruby ran into her grandmother's hug without hesitation, nestling into the scent of lavender hand cream and something faintly sweet—maybe honey, maybe just nan. don stood and tousled her curls, chuckling as he planted a kiss on her head.

"happy birthday, poppet," he said, handing her a small box wrapped in sparkly purple paper.

ruby gasped but didn't rip the paper. she simply held it, eyes wide, heart full.

"i don't need anything else," she whispered. "this is perfect."

and she meant it. in that moment, in the smell of tea and pancakes, in the quiet joy of being seen and loved, ruby felt complete. yet there was still a tug—something missing. she looked toward the door, just briefly, and sighed.

"i wish dad could come early," she said quietly. "but i know... football's hard."

liz ruffled her hair. "he'll call soon. and you know your dad—he always shows up when it matters most."

ruby nodded, though her eyes lingered on the hallway—half-expecting to see him there with a messy bag and tired smile. but instead, she turned back, her voice brightening again.

"nan! i want to see it!" she said, suddenly urgent. "please?"

liz's smile faltered just slightly, the whisk still dripping batter into the bowl. she looked at ruby—those familiar eyes, full of wonder, full of longing.