“Hey, hey, don’t-” Ivy Windsor was buckling her seatbelt, trying to stop him, but it was already too late. “What’s wrong? Did you spike it or something?” Jamison Ludwig teased, glancing over as she fumbled with the seat adjustment. “As if I’d do that!”

She watched helplessly as he opened the thermos, knowing there was no way to avoid it now. With a sheepish pout, she admitted, “I made you birthday noodles, but they’ve probably turned into a sticky lump by now.” “It’s fine,” he replied, already flipping the lid open. No surprise–the noodles had soaked up all the broth, swollen and clumped together, practically overflowing. The once-bright greens now looked limp and yellowed. Ivy winced, reaching to grab the container back. “Don’t eat that, it’s totally ruined.” “They look great–you even tried to make it look nice,” Jamison said, sensing her embarrassment. He picked up a fork and took a bite without hesitation. Ivy stared at his expression, searching for a hint of disgust. But he just looked unbothered, as if nothing was amiss. “Not bad. I’m glad you finally learned how to cook. Now I don’t have to worry about you starving yourself,” Dr. Ludwig joked, giving her an encouraging smile as he took another bite. Ivy eyed him skeptically. “Really? It’s not that bad?” “Mm-hmm.” Not convinced, she snatched the fork from his hand and tried it herself. “Hey, it’s my birthday–why are you stealing my noodles?” Jamison protested, half-laughing. But Ivy had already shoved a mouthful into her mouth. Two chews later, her face scrunched up. “It’s completely flavorless! And the noodles are all mushy.” Ignoring his protests, she whisked the thermos away. “Don’t eat this. I’ll make you a fresh batch when we get home.” Jamison chuckled, seeing through her act. “Did you forget the salt?” Ivy tucked everything away and turned in her seat, ready to drive, admitting honestly, “Maybe I did.” “You didn’t taste it before you packed it?” “I did! Well, sort of. I was in a hurry–maybe I just didn’t notice.”

The car started and slipped out of the parking spot. Ivy glanced at the dashboard clock. It was already 11:45 p.m. Even if she sped home in five minutes, it would take at least another ten to cook the noodles–and that was being generous about her kitchen skills. Disappointment washed over her. She muttered under her breath, “I don’t think I’ll make it in time…” Jamison, understanding her frustration, reassured her, “It’s okay. You came to pick me up after my shift–that’s the best birthday present I could ask for.” After all, it was the thought that counted. But Ivy wasn’t having it. Her mind was racing, searching for a way to salvage his birthday.

As they pulled out of the lot, she spotted the small diner next to the hospital, still open. A few families sat at tables by the sidewalk–probably relatives waiting for loved ones inside. “I’ve got an idea!” Ivy blurted out, quickly pulling over. Jamison blinked. “What are you up to?” “Come on, I’m making you a new birthday meal.” Ivy parked, unbuckled, and hopped out before he could say another word. Jamison watched, baffled, as she hurried to the diner and started talking to the owner. “Excuse me, could I borrow your kitchen for just a moment?” Ivy pleaded. “My husband’s a doctor–he’s been in surgery all night and hasn’t had a bite to eat. It’s his birthday, and I tried to bring him dinner, but the noodles got all soggy. I just want to make him a fresh meal.” Seeing the owner hesitate, Ivy poured her heart out, even offering, “I’ll pay you–how about fifty dollars? Just let me use your stove for a few minutes-” Before she could finish, the owner’s wife came over, waving her hands. “No need, sweetheart, just come in! It’s almost midnight, you don’t want to waste any more time.” Somehow, women always seemed to understand the importance of these little rituals. The owner’s wife immediately shooed her husband aside to give Ivy space. Ivy was beyond grateful. “You’re such a lovely couple!” the woman gushed, noticing Jamison as he got out of the car and strolled over. “He’s handsome, too!” Ivy grinned. “Thank you, ma’am.” “Need a hand? These big pots aren’t like what you have at home.” “I’d appreciate it, thanks!” Ivy was clueless about the industrial burners and massive stockpots, but the owner’s wife quickly turned on the gas. The water roared to a boil in seconds. Step by step, the woman guided her through cooking the noodles, mixing the broth, adding the toppings, and seasoning. Jamison found a small table and eyed the greasy surface with mild horror–his neat-freak tendencies not thrilled. But watching Ivy bustling behind the counter, cooking just for him, made it easy to overlook the grime. He grabbed some napkins, wiped the table again and again, and smiled as he watched her work. When the mood struck, he even snuck a few photos on his phone. Just as he put his phone away, Ivy emerged, carrying a steaming bowl. “They’ve got all sorts of toppings here–there’s beef and fresh greens. This looks way better than what I make at home, and it only took five minutes!” She marveled at the difference. At home, she’d have fumbled for twenty minutes and still not managed something that looked–or smelled–half as good. Jamison eyed the beef noodle soup she placed in front of him and nodded with genuine appreciation. “Now this is amazing.”