“It's not.” Punk appears in the doorway, combat boots loud against the floor. “It's better.”
She sets a small box on the counter, wrapped in black paper with no bow. Classic Punk. Efficient even in gift-giving.
“Leon couldn't make it,” I say, not a question. Leon has been absent more than usual lately, but as always, none of us ask questions, especially on script.
Punk's gaze flicks to mine, then away. That practiced smile slides into place, too wide, too bright. “He had to work.”
A bed of fucking lies. We all know what Leon's work entails. We all know why he can't be here. But Asher doesn't, and his frown deepens at the vagueness.
“Work,” he repeats. “Right.”
Before anyone can elaborate, another knock echoes through the house.
“That's for me.” Asher disappears, leaving us in tense silence.
“He's suspicious,” Punk says quietly, cracking her neck.
“He's always suspicious.” I reach for the champagne. “It's what makes him—”
“Fucking incredible?” Lucinda supplies, teasing.
“I was going to say annoying,” I mumble into my glass of bubbles.
Jord snorts. “Sure you were.”
Best friends are fucking annoying.
Footsteps approach, and we all shift our expressions back to casual party mode. But when Asher rounds the corner, he's carrying something that makes my chest tight. For once, it has nothing to do with his six-four frame, or his eyes that rip layers off my soul with every blink, or that damn smile he only ever seems to reserve for me.
It’s a cake. Three tiers of dark chocolate dripping down white frosting, scattered with fresh white roses. I’ve hated birthdays. For twenty-eight years, I hated birthdays.
Asher’s face breaks into a half-smirk. “Happy birthday, Venom.”
I don't see him pull out his phone, but I hear the camera click. When I look up, he's already lowering it.
“Did you—”
“Candid shots are the best shots.” He sets the cake on the island. “You can thank me later.”
“For the cake or the unauthorized photo?” I tease, because I’m an idiot and his affection is starting to feel too much like home.
He shrugs, winking at me. “Both.”
Dinner unfolds in waves of laughter and wine. Jord tells stories about the restaurant he's opening, Le Chat, which has Lucinda in tears from laughing. Punk hacks Asher's Spotify mid-dinner, replacing his playlist with a form of heavy metal that has Asher rolling his eyes.
“I don't know what happened,” she says, examining her nails. “Technology is so unreliable.”
“You're a menace,” Asher tells her, but there's fondness in it. “You could at least listen to old school shit.”
My phone buzzes on the table. I ignore it. It buzzes again.
“Jesus, Ivy, answer it,” Lucinda says, but she's not looking at my phone. She's looking at hers, eyes wide with something between delight and disbelief.
“What?”
She turns her screen toward me.
It's Asher's Instagram. A post from thirty seconds ago.Happy birthdayfollowed by my handle, then a carousel of photos I didn't know existed.
