She shrugged carelessly. “It’s for your birthday. I didn’t wrap it. Last-minute decision.”
I stiffened slightly, glancing from her to the box. “You bought me something.”
She sighed dramatically. “I did.”
I shook my head slowly. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” she said impatiently. “Just open it.”
“Valentina,” I began cautiously, “I appreciate it, but?—”
She rolled her eyes and stood abruptly, walking around to my side of the table. Without permission, she pushed my plateaside, making room as she set the box firmly in front of me. She leaned in to pull the lid off herself.
Inside was a mug. Bold, obnoxious letters stared up at me:World’s Best Lawyer.
I blinked, feeling something strange twist in my chest. It was ridiculous—exactly the kind of absurd gesture she’d mocked me for a few weeks ago, back when she’d asked sarcastically if I had any “World’s Best Lawyer” mugs hidden in my kitchen. I’d almost forgotten that moment, but clearly, she hadn’t.
“You love it, don’t you?”
“Did you pick this out yourself?” I asked, my voice carefully neutral, eyes still on the stupid mug. I let out a slow breath, running my thumb along the smooth ceramic. The mug was cheap, deliberately obnoxious. It was the kind of gift someone bought when they knew you—really knew you. A joke, yes, but also proof she remembered details about me, even trivial ones. It felt far too personal for something as simple as a mug.
“Obviously,” she admitted, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I set the mug down gently. “You realize I’m never going to use this.”
“That’s okay. It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?” she said with a smile. “And you should know, normal people just say, ‘Thank you,’ and pretend they like it.”
“And what would you know about thank-yous?”
“I know they’re usually wasted on people like you.”
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “People like me?”
“People who wouldn’t recognize gratitude if it slapped them in the face.”
Funny, coming from her.
“I recognize gratitude,” I countered evenly. “Usually, it’s just disguised as sarcasm coming from you.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Sarcasm is my highest form of affection.”
“How unfortunate.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly sensing the bait but stepping into it anyway. “Why’s that?”
“Because it means you must be deeply in love with half the city.”
“Jealous?”
I looked up at her. “Incredibly.”
“Well,” she said, as sweet as honey, “sarcasm is a hard habit to break. You’ll have to learn to share.”
“I’ve never been good at sharing.”
“An only-child complex?” she guessed lightly, leaning her weight against the table, curling her fingers around the edge.
“Something like that.”
