A/N: If you're reading this, I love you. You know who you are.

Happy birthday, my love.

This takes place several years after Legend of Korra. And it is completely non-canon. But I don't even care.

The last part of this was written to Safe and Sound from The Hunger Games soundtrack.

Rough cut. Unedited. Most likely awful.

Light dances on her eyelids, the yellow-white tinge visible even though her eyes are closed. Her head pressed against the back of the upraised futon and one arm trapped underneath the pillow wedged at the edge, she yawns and notices something on her cheek. One hand curls about the corner of the blanket, a spiral of air from her palm blowing it off of her and into the opposite wall, the blue and white furred fabric crumpling noisily to the floor. The something on her face hasn't moved, and she touches her cheek hesitantly only to feel the curl of paper. Sitting up abruptly—her head pounding painfully in return—she rips whatever it is from her face and glares at it, her blurry midmorning gaze slowly settling onto the offending object: A white sticky note with words scribbled on it in that unhurried, messy writing she knows all too well:

"In your eyes, I can just be me."

Somewhat confused, she flips it over, but that's all it says. Nothing more except for a few disjointed lines in a small pattern on the back. Blinking, she means to fold it up and toss it in the bin, but something compels her to hold it instead, dropping it into the pocket of her pants. "Bolin?" she calls out, glancing around their apartment, but he doesn't seem to be here; she sucks in a breath and tries not to be disappointed. If anything, she's surprised. He's never not there in the morning.

Maybe that's why he left her the sticky note.

Frowning, she slides off of the futon, landing heavily on her rear. As she stands up, she yawns again. "No more late night finagling." She doesn't know if the last word is correct, but she doesn't particularly care, considering how early it is. Complaining to herself, she drags her limp body across the room to the kitchen counter, the pads of her feet cool against the floor. Fingers curl around the handle of the icebox—their anniversary present earlier this year, courtesy of Asami, along with a trip around the Earth Kingdom—and a hiss of cold air envelops her face. She closes her eyes and allows it to kiss her skin. In the heat of summer, it's unbelievably refreshing, like one of his bright grins.

When her hand slips down the icebox handle, her wrist brushes against . . . paper.

Her eyebrows knotting together in a flash, she tears the sticky note off, the corner ripping off, and reads it with a combination of curiosity and mild annoyance.

"Laughs and smiles all around."

"That's not even a sentence," she grumbles, adding it to the other sticky note in her pocket. Her gaze shifting to the contents of the icebox, she notes a tray of cupcakes arranged in rows of four, the green and blue icing sloppily and overeagerly piled on, a curled-up sticky note protruding from one of them. Sighing, she plucks it from its resting place and reads it, realising that it's actually two affixed to each other.

"Over and over again, no matter how many times I touch you, it's a new world every time. I could never get tired of you."

A blush rises unbidden to her cheeks, the memory of last night coming to her. The futon will never be the same. Expelling such thoughts before she rings him up and forces him to get to the house this instant, she grasps the cupcake closest to her, pleased not to have to cook this morning. "Thanks, Bo." Leaning on the still open door of the icebox and enjoying the residual coolness flowing over her body, she bites into the cupcake, her teeth sinking into the unimaginably soft filling, the cake moist and delicious, the icing topping the barrage with a crunchy sugary delight, the sweetness balanced out by the flavour notes of the cake. It dries her mouth slightly when she swallows. Another bite, and she is in baking paradise. A third.

Paper.

She blinks rapidly. Her hand flies up to her mouth, her index finger dragging out a mangled sticky note covered in crumbs and saliva. Yet the message, written in teeny characters to make it fix, is still clear.

"Varying and violent as our lives might be—life with the Avatar isn't easy!—you always make time for me."

Something is up. She isn't sure what, but she's planning something. Turning back to the icebox, she grasps the other three cupcakes in the front row, pulling them apart to find a trio of notes, some on a single sticky note, others placed in two:

"Every activity we share: Naga, noodles, penguin sledding, films, the midnight walks, the baking and the dancing and the two of us together."

"You're always there for me."

"Oh and don't forget you're the smartest, funniest, toughest, buffest, talentedest, incrediblest girl in the world!"

A smile parts her lips before she can stop herself. She shakes her head and looks at the seven notes, wondering what they mean. Knowing Bolin, it's nothing. Just some sticky notes, probably trying to apologise for not being here for her today in the morning. Absent-mindedly she picks through the rest of the cupcakes, but there don't seem any more endearing notes. She shrugs and puts the broken cupcakes back, licking the crumbs off of her fingertips as she looks around, her eyes narrowing when she notes the calendar on the other wall, the current date circled several times and marked with a giant green sticky note.

She inhales abruptly.

"There you are." Grinning smugly, she strides across the apartment, grasping the sticky note and staring at it.

"Unique. That's you. You are you, and that's everything I need to know."

Her cheeks flush. "Bolin, I swear if you're hiding around here somewhere, you're getting kicked out of the house." She starts to move away, but the bright markings on the calendar itself make her glance back, and she gasps when she sees what has been written on the space where the sticky note just was.

"It's my . . . birthday?" Her mouth drops open, her eyes widening. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos in her life lately, she must have forgotten. Shaking her head, she takes a step backwards. "All right! It's my birthday!" Crowing, she pumps the air with her fist, but after a moment a curious sort of sadness settles down on her when she realises that he left on her birthday. "So are these sticky notes your present, Bo?" she mutters, a pang of disappointment running through her. "I guess you were busy." Slowly she takes the notes out of her pocket and spreads them on the counter in order of how she found them, every sentence bringing another grin to her face. "Korra, what are you talking about?" A sudden wave of shame washes over her as she realises where her thoughts had just jumped. Busy? It would have taken him thirty seconds to dash to the store and ring up a few purchases. But she can't imagine long it must have taken for him to carefully write out these notes—to think of these notes, even—and then to hide them where he knew she would find them.

She wants to slap her face with her palm for expecting something big and flashy when this . . . these words . . . they will the ones she will remember far more than any present he could give her, one used and then tossed into a bin or a dusty box, shoved into a corner of a closet or placed atop a mantle and forgotten about.

But these words will be ones to which she will return in the dark hours of the night when there's nothing else for her, when the wind whispers across the barren wastelands of her mind, when the only colour and sound in the world is carved from memories, from the echoes of voices past, from the shadows of what she once had.

It will be then that she remembers these words.

But not now. Because now she has him. Even if he isn't here at the moment. She'll always have him, whether it be here or in memory.

She exhales, her muscles relaxing, her shoulders rolling, her entire body buoyed by the thoughts. Her low breath flips over one of the sticky notes, and she sees the strange markings on the back again. Furrowing her brow, she turns all of the notes over, looking at the sketches on the back. They seem to be too regular in their irregularity to be random, and so she begins to arrange them, matching line by line, and they fall into place in the order that she picked them up in.

She inspires sharply when she places the final sticky note down, the puzzle arrayed on the counter, the last message spelled out before her.

Reasons I love you.

I don't know what I'd do without you.

Thank you for making me believe in me.

Happy birthday, Korra.

Never forget that I love you.

-Bolin

Closing her eyes, she allows herself to slide to her knees in the kitchen, her forehead against the cool cabinets. Her lips move in a silent prayer. A silent I love you. A silent Bolin.

Distantly she hears the door creak open, footsteps lighter than air whisper across the floor, the rustle of clothing as he kneels next to her, enveloping her in his arms, lips brushing gently over the back of her neck, one hand resting on her stomach, the other stroking along her inner arm.

"It feels like it's my birthday." His voice is softer than a feather alighting on stone. "Because you are the best present I could ever have asked for.

"I love you. I always will."

She glances at him, his eyes green and bright and filled with tears and joy and love. "Promise?"

His fingers curl around hers.

"Promise."