Sylus isnāt the guy who waits for your birthday to drop something huge on you.
Heāll justā¦ do it. Random Tuesday in March, you wake up to him already dressed, leaning in the bedroom doorway with that lazy half-smirk, tossing a set of keys onto the bed like itās nothing.
You stare at the key; matte black, sleek logo you recognize instantly. Your brain short-circuits for a solid five seconds.
āā¦Sylus, what the fuck is this?ā
He shrugs. āYour new car, sweetie. Parked downstairs. Figured the matte red would look good with your new gear.ā
Youāre still blinking at the keys. āYou bought me a sports car. On a random day. Becauseā¦?ā
āBecause I saw it and thought youād look hot driving it.ā He says it like thatās the only explanation required. No card, no ribbon, no celebratory card. Just him, already walking toward the kitchen like he didnāt just change your entire driveway situation.
Birthdays and holidays are different with him.
Those are quieter. More private.
On your actual birthday he doesnāt do grand gestures or flashy jewelry. He waits until the apartment is dark, everyone else long gone, and then he sits you down on the couch with nothing but a small velvet box in his palm.
Inside is something small and personal. A tiny silver heart shaped locket with a picture of the two of you in it. Itās the kind where you arenāt posing, not deliberately trying to look good for the camera. Itās a small intimate moment shared between the two of you and even in the picture, his full attention is on you. Heās had it cleaned, strung on a thin chain he picked himself.
No speech. Just him fastening it around your neck with careful fingers, lips brushing the nape before he pulls back to look at you.
āBeen carrying that around for a while,ā he mutters. āFigured it was time you had it.ā
Youāre crying before you even realize it. He doesnāt make a big deal, just pulls you into his lap, lets you hide your face in his neck while he strokes your hair like itās the most natural thing in the world.
Valentineās, Christmas, anniversaries, he keeps it the same. Thoughtful, quiet, stupidly intimate things that mean something only to the two of you: a leather-bound sketchbook filled with his own rough drawings of places youāve been together, a single pressed flower from the field where you first kissed, a custom knife engraved with the date he decided you were never getting away from him.
No billboards. No parades. No āworldās best girlfriendā mugs.
Just him, quietly proving every day that youāre the only thing heās ever really wanted to keep.
And then on some random Thursday in July heāll walk in, drop a set of matte-black keys on the counter while youāre eating cereal, and go ābought you a bike. Itās downstairs. Donāt scratch it.ā
You stare at him over the bowl.
He just kisses the top of your head and steals a spoonful of your cereal like he didnāt just casually drop five figures on a whim.
Big gifts whenever the hell he feels like it.
The ones that actually hurt to give, those are saved for the days that matter.
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