Saffron bursts through the kitchen door. She stops dead. There on the marble counter sits the birthday cake, and her brother has a torn bite right in the middle.
A smear of frosting drapes his jaw. He chews one last slow bite, fork still clung to a crumbling wedge. His eyes lock on hers.
Saffron snatches the silver decorating spatula from the counter. Her fingers close tight on the handle. She turns to face him.
She hurls it across the counter. Ping. The spatula skids along marble, bounces, and lands at his bare feet.
"Help me fix it," Saffron says, pointing at the torn slice. He picks up the spatula and squints at the wreckage.
He smears the ragged edge; she presses her palm over the tear. The frosting slides right off. A white gap yawns open.
She spreads, he smooths. The frosting drags, lifts, settles. The gap stretches thin, then vanishes.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Mom's heels pound down the hall. They freeze — palm on the cake, spatula hovering, a single dollop wobbling on its tip.
Saffron leans over the counter. Her thumb finds the wobbly dollop, pressing it flat and smooth. Done.
"Is it ready?" Mom asks, stepping into the kitchen. They bump shoulders, grinning at the lumpy, striped, crooked cake. "We decorated it."