This isn't weird.

Underwaster Basket Weaving

Rolling over in bed, Ben expected his outstretched arm to fall upon the warmth of another body, but all he found was cold, empty space. His stomach lurched as he opened his eyes and sat up.

"Millie?" he said, looking around the room. It was darker than when he'd dozed off—not quite evening yet, but this time of year, the sun was already low enough to cast only the most anemic dregs of light through the half-open curtains. The shadows in his room seemed to make the negative spaces widen, surrounding him with steadily expanding emptiness and filling him with dread. He climbed out of bed, peering first into the bathroom, but it was vacant. Dread began to warp into panic.

She was gone.

She had left him.

Again.

Barely breathing, he staggered to his bedroom door and out into the hall. There, his senses were startled by a warm, sugary smell floating through the air. He exhaled.

Thank god.

He found just enough presence of mind to dress himself before following that tantalizing aroma to the kitchen. She was there. Of course she was there. Wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of red oven mitts, Millie bounced impatiently on her bare heels as she stared at the oven, more beautiful than he had ever seen her before. Ben rushed over, grabbing her up into his arms without warning. One oven mitt slipped from her hand and fell to the floor as she let out a startled yelp.

"Well, look who's awake," she said with a laugh. "I thought you'd be passed out longer after you wore yourself out like that. I'm surprised I can even stand."

If he heard her, he didn't show it. "You're still here," he said raggedly, breathing much harder than the brief stroll from his bed to the kitchen could explain.

"Where else would I be?" she asked

"I don't know. You weren't—I don't know."

Running her fingers through his hair, she realized that he was shaking. "Oh, Ben," she whispered. "What did I do to you?"

"Nothing. Nothing, you didn't—I had a bad dream, that's all." He pulled away and looked down at her with his brightest smile. "What are you up to in here? It smells amazing."

She hesitated before returning his smile. "Guess," she said.

"Skiing."

"Close."

"Falconry."

"Closer."

"Parkour."

"Not quite."

"Underwater basket weaving."

"Nope."

"Invading Poland."

"That was yesterday."

"I give up."

"It's your birthday," she replied. "I wanted to surprise you with a cake. Nothing fancy, just a sheet cake. I don't have any frosting, but I think I can make a little powdered sugar drizzle."

"It will be amazing. I can't wait." Now that she was in front of him again, his anxiety was a distant memory. Everything was fine. Better than fine. Perfect.

Just as she began to rise on her toes to kiss him, the shrill beep of the oven timer startled her backwards, and he had to grab her by the arms to keep her from losing her balance. "Well, you won't have to wait long now," she said, picking up one oven mitt and looking around for the other in confusion. He grinned and stooped down to grab it from the floor. The cake she placed on the counter a moment later was as tantalizing as he expected, vanilla-scented steam rising from its perfect golden surface.