That morning, he was already awake, lying beside me and scrolling through his phone.
“Morning,” I said softly.
“Morning,” he replied without looking up. “You should get moving early. The guys are coming over for the game.”
I frowned. “Today? But it’s Saturday. And it’s my—”
“I know,” he cut in, smirking. “It’s your birthday. Relax. I got you a gift.”
Against my better judgment, hope stirred in my chest.
I hated that it still did.
He reached under the bed and handed me a tall, narrow package wrapped in thin store paper.
“Open it,” he said, clearly amused.
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