Baby by the river, on an ark of reed

Neva sweetly, viscerally hums—singing as she lives the moment, steeped in the joy of creation.

Fresh chocolate cakes, baked in shallow containers, now lie sliced into halves.

She layers them with care, spreading thick swirls of chocolate cream between the sponges.

The cake is unbelievably soft, moist—almost divine.

It's for her husband. He'll be a year older when the clock strikes midnight. She's sent him to the farmer's market for groceries, secretly scheming to surprise him at exactly 00:00.

By the little dining table, beside the wall of their tiny kitchen, sits Anna—her hand gently, endlessly scratching the chubby orange kitty's round cheek.

Ella, the pretty and plump cat, purrs contentedly, curled up in Anna's lap.

Anna is the same girl who fell into the pond that day. They had been hurrying to warm the child, and if her condition had worsened, they would've taken her straight to the nearest clinic.

But just when the fields and lit cottages came into view at the forest's edge, Mr. Lonan—Anna's father—along with her aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Barlowe, had found them.

Anna had wandered into the forest alone.

When she didn't return for over three hours, they went out searching themselves as dusk fell.

After Neva and Rhett helped bring her safely home, they left quietly.

Four days later, Anna had returned to their cottage, cookies in hand—and Ella in tow—offering them a small token of thanks.

That was two weeks and four days ago.

Today is the third of February.

Anna watches Neva closely, her gaze trailing each movement, mesmerized by the graceful sweep of her hands, the way the cream settles, the delicate balance of layers.

Her eyes are bright, full of wonder—as if Neva is a fairy, dusting golden pixie-glitter with every small sway, magically shaping the moist chocolate cake.

Ella meows faintly, disturbed as Anna's scratching hand slips.

"Oh, sorry, Ella," Anna coos, and the cat resumes purring, melting into her touch.

The sound draws Neva's attention—her humming freezes mid-note. She glances over, smiling softly, never having imagined cats could be this insanely adorable.

She returns her focus to the cake, brushing on perfect final touches before sliding it gently into a see-through keeper.

"You must be bored," Neva says, stashing the cake behind the fruit bowls in the fridge.

"Not at all," Anna replies with a smile.

Neva closes the fridge door and turns around. "I'm glad then. The cookies should be done soon."

In the oven, the chocolate chip cookie dough bars are nearly twenty minutes in.

Anna will have to wait until tomorrow for cake, but for now, they'll enjoy fresh cookies and tea.

Just then, she hears the faint creak of the entrance door being opened.

A familiar voice calls, "I'm back, Angel!"

Rhett steps inside, shutting the door behind him.

His eyes scan the parlor, quickly locking onto Neva standing in the open kitchen's soft corner.

"Welcome back," she smiles, walking toward him.

"Did you bring everything I asked for?" she asks, peeking into the cotton bag.

"Yeah," he mutters, but his eyes flick toward Anna and the cat. The air between them shifts—his smile falters.

Anna. And that orange cat again. Interrupting, once more, the quiet bloom of romance he longs to share with his Angel.

He'd imagined showering her with kisses—maybe something deeper.

But not with a child around. And certainly not with that cat. He strongly disapproves of their too-frequent visits.

"What's wrong?" Neva asks, catching his frown as she holds the grocery bag.

"Nothing," he says, brushing her cheek with a quick kiss before heading to their room.

Neva tilts her head, wondering what just went wrong.

---

That night, as the clock neared midnight, Neva lies beside him—still, watching Rhett slumber.

His face beautifully serene, cast in soft shadows, the faint rhythm of his breath rising and falling.

Her fingers trace his cheekbone, slow and feather-light. A warm smile flickers on her lips as his eyelids twitch faintly in dream.

Then—quietly, she slips out of bed.

In the kitchen, under dim golden light, she carefully decorates the cake.

Cornsilk white, blush pink, cocoa roses, and olive-green vines frame the edges. She writes in icing, in stylish cursive:

Merriest birthday to my dashing husband.

She crowns it with four slender, milk-white candles.

Peeking into the bedroom from the door's narrow opening, she sees him still asleep.

Her phone glows.

23:59:37.

She scrambles back to the cake, lights the candles, and tiptoes into the room—her arms carefully carrying the glowing surprise.

"Rhett, wake up…" she whispers.

He stirs, turning the other way.

"Rhett, wake up!" she says, louder.

"What is it, Angel?" he mumbles, voice groggy, eyes still closed.

"Happy birthday, darling," she murmurs, a little shy—she's never called him that before.

He rolls to face her, eyes now wide, heart stirring.

Under the amber halo of their vintage lantern, Neva stands holding a glowing masterpiece, her face radiant.

His breath catches.

She always finds a way to leave him in awe.

Her voice—sweet, velvety—begins to sing the birthday song, her words altered with her own loving touch. The melody wraps around them like warmth.

He sits up, legs crossed on the bed, eyes locked on her as she draws closer.

"Happy 24th birthday, Rhett," she smiles, eyes glistening. Then she gently blows at the candles, making the flames dance.

"Blow them out," she whispers.

Enchanted by the moment—by Neva—he leans in and extinguishes the flames.

Neva gasps. "You forgot to make a wish!"

"Can I still do it now?" he asks, laughing.

She squints dramatically, pretending to consider. "Sure. You can."

He closes his eyes, folds his hands. Three seconds pass. Then he opens them and reaches for the knife.

He slices into the cake and offers her the first piece.

She takes a bite, then steals the rest and nudges it into his mouth, laughing softly.

She flicks on the light. "Were you surprised?"

"Greatly," he grins, rising to kiss her. Their lips meet—tender, slow, grateful.

"Did you like the cake?"

"It's delicious."

"I made it," she says proudly, chin lifted.

His heart swells with love.

He kisses her again, harder this time.

"Thank you, my wife."

"My pleasure."

"Want more cake, or sleep?"

"Make love." He smiles, voice low and rough, eyes smoldering into hers.

She gasps, cheeks flaming. "We just did that a few hours ago."

"I know," he murmurs, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"But it's my birthday. And I always want you more—deeper, higher." His voice grows hoarse as he nibbles her ear. She shivers as his warm breath feathers her skin.

She pushes him away playfully. "If you're not eating more, I'm putting this back in the fridge."

He gets to the cake first, lifting it with awe.

"You really think I'm good-looking?" he teases.

Neva shies away, biting her lip.

"I do," she whispers.

And just like that, his lips float back to hers.

"I love you," he whispers through a smile.

"I love you too," she breathes, their foreheads touching.

---

Twisted and curled under warm bedsheets, bare and tangled, Neva and Rhett lie wrapped in each other—skin slick, breath slow, hearts full.

Peaceful. Spent. Glowing.

"Want to hear a story?" he asks, her head resting on his bare chest.

She hums softly in reply.

"My late father found me," he begins. "A baby in a reed basket. By the river."

Her head lifts, stunned eyes meeting his.

"What?" Her brows knit together.

"I know, right?" he chuckles. "Am I Moses or what?"