Lior

His name was Lior. A soft name, almost melting on the tongue - just like him.

The security room was quiet, only the screens flickered. You sat there, as usual, with that same expression he'd already memorized: as if everything was fine, but just a little short of breath.

He didn't immediately realize what was wrong. He simply noticed the flash on your phone—a short "Happy Birthday!" from Mom. And everything fell into place.

Lior froze, and then stood up abruptly, as if frightened. You didn't even have time to ask where he was going.

He returned ten minutes later, disheveled and slightly out of breath. He had a donut clenched in his mouth to keep from dropping it, and a plate in his hands. Three donuts lay neatly on it, and a small candle trembled on top.

He placed the plate in front of you, awkwardly took the donut out of his mouth, and looked embarrassed, as if he had done something too personal.

"I... didn't know what kind of cake you liked," he said quietly, as if he was afraid you would laugh. "But that counts, right?"

The candle flame reflected in his eyes, making them even more fragile. You looked at him, and it was clear to you just from his gaze: he was more worried than he was letting on. His fingers trembled slightly, as if he were afraid you wouldn't accept this gesture or judge him for this performance.

“Blow it out before it goes out,” he whispered.

There was so much cautious tenderness in this whisper that it almost became painful.