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"What is it?" Harrow sat on an overstuffed armchair in their little apartment, a piece of something moist and dark and dense on her plate. Her other hand held her fork, which she used to poke at the mass. It sprung back jovially.
"It's cake!" Gideon seemed very proud of herself, her hands on her hips, a smear of flour over her nose, her tacky "kiss the cook" apron a mess. "I made it!"
It was obviously homemade, and Harrow very carefully used the edge of her fork to carve off a piece. She sniffed it. It smelled good, actually, and she spared a quick glance up at Gideon before she took a bite.
Grinning, Gideon said, "It's good, right?"
Harrow chewed slowly, then nodded, "It's good." She took another bite, keenly aware of Gideon practically glowing in front of her. "What's the occasion?"
"Do I need an occasion?" Her puzzled façade shattered when she laughed, "It's Valentine's Day, you goon!"
"Oh." Harrow had never really celebrated. She had never really had any reason to. Unsure what else to do, she took another forkful of cake and popped it into her mouth.
"Figured you'd like the dark chocolate." Gideon leaned close, bracing her arms on either arm of the chair, then pressed a kiss to the tip of Harrow's nose. Her tone light and teasing, she said, "It's black, just like your heart."