He sets the cake box and the six pack of Stella down. “This better not be some grocery store chocolate cake with gross sugary frosting. I have a very refined palate.”

“Give me a little credit, Ash.”

He briefly narrows his eyes to mine before running a fingernail under the slip of tape. It’s the sticker on the top of the box that makes his face fall.

“I believe that’s a vanilla sponge with layers of peanut butter mousse, strawberry jam, and marshmallow cream. Or as the woman at Flower + Flour called it: the Oh God It’s That Time of Year Again.”

“You got my favorite cake?”

“I took three trains and an Uber to get your favorite cake.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s your birthday, Asher.”

His face softens. He doesn’t look upset. He doesn’t look happy. He looks indifferent. Stunned. Shocked that someone would go out of their way for him.

“Do you want your present?” I hold up the bag to him. It’s purple with teal tissue paper. I figured he would appreciate the fact that I didn’t use one of my many Christmas bags. After all, his birthday shouldn’t be overshadowed by the biggest holiday of the year.

“Did I buy it for myself?” he asks when he takes it.

I glare at him. “I do have my own credit card.”

“I’m surprised you remember how to use it.”

“There’s no card,” I say. “I hope you’re not offended. I couldn’t find one I liked.”

“Was there no fake boyfriend section?”

“Ex-husband. Second grade teacher. Gynecologist. But no fake boyfriend.”

“How unfortunate.”

“I considered drawing you one, but I didn’t want Chloe to think I was trying to come for her spot on your fridge.”

I catch a rare dimpled smile. As much as I love Asher in a well-tailored suit, I might love him relaxed in the kitchen light more. Leaning against his counter. In a pair of fitted sweatpants and the same gray hoodie from earlier. With messy couch-hair. And sleepy eyes.

“Robin Roberts’ memoir?”

“You said you watch Good Morning America.”

“I do.” He’s smiling, but he looks confused. Adorably perplexed. “Thank you.”

“Happy Birthday, Asher.”

I spring up onto the tips of my toes with every intention of kissing his cheek, but he turns his head just enough for me to catch the corner of his lips. There’s a certain shyness that lingers over us that’s never there when we’re putting on a show. It’s an unintentional realization. We don’t have to pretend in the privacy of his home.

“We should cut the cake.” I don’t mean to whisper, but it comes out so softly that I barely hear myself speak.

“What kind of civilized person do you think I am?” he whispers back.

“Then may I suggest getting us some forks?”

“You think I’m going to share my cake with you?”