I freeze in the doorway because I’m not quite sure what to think about the sight. He’s sprawled dramatically in one of the armchairs in the corner of the room, legs hanging over one of the armrests and arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s kept the green hair despite running one of the largest research centers on the west coast, and I kind of love him even more for it. His glasses are sliding slightly down his nose while he glares at absolutely nothing.
He looks up as I enter, and his eyes narrow on me immediately. “What?”
I close the door behind me and lean my back against it. “You’re sitting there wearing a shirt that better be claiming you as my property instead of advertising peanut butter cups, and you’re pouting while you’re doing it. I don’t like it.”
His frown only deepens. “I’m mourning.”
“You’re turning thirty. Not entering hospice care.”
“Easy for you to say,” he grumbles. “You’re emotionally frozen at like thirty-six forever.”
“I don’t think that’s how dying works.”
He huffs, but I ignore it to stare at his shirt instead. He notices, and a smug little grin threatens to break through the sulking.
“You like it?” he asks with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“I like it if it means you’re mine.”
“Duh.”
I let out a breathy laugh and shake my head. “That is simultaneously the most ridiculous and adorable thing you’ve ever worn.”
“Thank you,” he says proudly.
Then his face falls again as he slumps deeper into the chair.
“Thirty,” he mumbles like it’s a terminal illness. “Do you know how horrifying that sounds?”
“You died already. I feel like birthdays should bother you less now.”
When that doesn’t seem to make anything better, I cross the room and crouch in front of the chair. His hair is draped over his glasses a little, so I reach out and push some of the green strands back.
“Is this really about turning thirty?” I ask.
“It means we’re both getting older.”
Ah.
We haven’t really talked about the fourteen years between us. However, I’m only turning forty-four this year, and I just have a little bit of salt in my hair. But he’s turning thirty, so I guess I can give him a pass for thinking we’re both old already.
I’ll give him a good birthday spanking for it later.
“Hey,” I say, brushing my thumb across his jaw. “I won’t lie to you. Your thirties might be a bit rough. Mine certainly were.”
That finally gets a hint of a smile out of him.
“But your forties?” I stand and extend my hand down for his. “Might just be some of the best years of your life.”
He takes my hand, and I help him to his feet. He immediately latches onto me, throwing his arms around my waist and staring up at me with those beautiful green eyes.
“The best years of my life have already started.”
A warmth fills my chest and curves my mouth into a smile.
Three months ago, I might’ve thought he was being dramatic. Now I know better. Cason only says things like that when he means them.
I lean down and kiss him once, slow and lingering. When I pull back, he tries to follow, but I stop him with a hand pressed to his chest, right over that ridiculous shirt that’s claiming him as mine.
