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Sterling cuts a ceremonial chunk from the top, and then waiters swarm the vast room with carts of slices already plated.

The mountain of cake is wheeled away. It makes you wonder if the whole giant confection was real, or if most of it was just styrofoam covered in frosting, built to look impressive and nothing more.

The piece you are handed is delicious, though.

Licking your spoon, you ask Sterling if he knows what flavor it is.

“Lemon cake with blueberry compote and lavender buttercream,” he says happily. “My favorite.”

The order of events is backwards—dessert before dinner—but, after cake, you guys wander up to the mezzanine and sit with friends of Sterling’s while having a bite to eat.

The catering is some sort of hyper-trendy, froufrou British approximation of American Southern comfort food: BBQ pork on tiny, flat cornbread wafers with jicama slaw, mac n’ cheese dusted in rosemary and microplaned nutmeg, pickled sweet pepper and red onion on delicate skewers, and fried shrimp wrapped in praline bacon atop a rounded scoop of polenta.

It’s all executed well, technically, but, given your background, it’s an affront to your culture and people.

That doesn’t stop you from downing about six of the stupid, fussy pork crackers and countless quantities of shrimp. Food is food, after all.

Upstairs, a few waiters are passing champagne, and Sterling is on his third flute. His friends, an A-list actor-singer couple, have just excused themselves to FaceTime the nanny and check on their four daughters. You take advantage of the lull in the action and nudge Sterling in the side.

“Might want to have something to eat, champ,” you comment affectionately.

“Huh?” Sterling lolls his head against your shoulder like a big cat. A friendly, half-drunk lion, maybe.

“What is that, round five? Six?” You tip your chin at his champagne. “Much more of that, and the birthday boy’s not gonna be able to stand up straight.”

He blinks his big, pretty eyes at you guilelessly. “It’s my party, and I’ll fall down if I want to,” he sings quietly. Then he pats your arm. “Just taking advantage of the night. I don’t usually get to be surrounded by all my friends and drink what I want.”

“Are you having fun?” you ask. The mezzanine is a bit quieter than the ground floor. The lights are dimmer up here. More intimate. Sterling’s slow, sexy smile is enough to knock you on the floor.

“So much,” he says. “Thank you for coming, Kai.”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“I don’t just mean here, tonight,” he clarifies. “I mean London. Tour. I appreciate you wanting to be with me.”

Your chest is doing that jerky two-step again. Before you can do something stupid—get down on one knee and spontaneously propose; lean over the mezz balcony and scream from the top of your lungs that you are crazy for Sterling Grayson—you kiss his temple.

“I always want to be with you,” you say, honestly.

“Do you want to go downstairs and dance?” he asks.

That makes you smile, despite yourself. “Not really. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“I bet you aren’t.”

“There’s a reason I’ve never given you the chance to find out.”

Sterling takes a lazy sip of his champagne. “I’m a terrible dancer, too.”

You scoff. “Myself and eighty thousand audience members per tour stop know that’s a damn fib. You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

He shakes his head. “Not a lie. I’m good at choreo, and my team makes sure that my choreo showcases my strengths. When it comes to spontaneously dancing, though? Like, at weddings? Or whatever? Terrible.”

You can feel the skeptical look spread across your face .

“If this is a trick to make me take you downstairs and prove you wrong, it’s working,” you joke.

“Not a trick.” He puts his flute down. “Don’t actually wanna dance, though. Come with me to find a bathroom?”

“What are we, a bunch of girls?” you grumble, but you let him pull you to your feet and lead you by the hand, just like he’s been doing all night.

Down the stairs to the ground floor and through the crowd on the couches, all of whom want to hug and squeeze and coo at Sterling.

It takes several minutes. You thought that you saw restrooms in the foyer, but Sterling leads you through a side door tucked in an alcove to the far right of the stage, barely illuminated.

It’s a hallway leading backstage, the corridor more brightly lit than the moody gels in the theater.

Further up and in the general direction of the left, you can hear the DJ’s music, muted by the concrete walls.

It’s a remix of a popular song, one that comes up on autoplay a lot.

Sterling is humming under his breath as he tests doors, jiggling handles.

“I didn’t have breaking in on my Birthday Party Bingo card,” you comment.

“Frish rented the whole facility,” Sterling replies. “One of these has to be the green room.”

“How do you know that? ”

The look he shoots over his shoulder was probably intended to be withering, but is actually cute as fuck. “Ask me again how I instinctively know the way most performance facilities are laid out.”

There must be something to Sterling’s alleged performer-mojo, because one of the doors gives, and he pokes his head in shamelessly. Lets out an a-ha! that sounds ridiculous until you remember that he’s kind of drunk. And then you’re right back at adorable.

Sterling flicks a light switch, and closes the door behind you two.

Turns the lock. It is, indeed, a green room.

The green room? You don’t know how many there are.

It looks familiar, though; a rudimentary version of the spacious and well-lit dens that Sterling occupies backstage at stadiums all over the world.

There’s a triple-wide vanity mirror studded with light bulbs and a long counter at which to get ready.

The walls are covered in black-and-white pictures of the Troxy back in its heyday as a cinema; beneath them are three leather couches and some empty shelving.

And, against the opposite wall, another door.

“Must be your bathroom,” you comment. But Sterling is still holding your hand and dragging you across the room.

“Help me with my pants,” he complains. The bathroom is small, just black tile with a white sink and toilet. Basic lighting. Nothing fancy. But it’s undeniably private, which you guess was the appeal. Even at his own birthday party, Sterling seeks privacy like a moth that will never find a flame.

“The hell is wrong with your pants?” you ask, amused.

Sterling leans against the wall, his lower lip sulky.

“There’s so many buttons,” he tells you.

This is ludicrous, but it’s his birthday.

So you humor him, taking a knee on the tile to examine the crotch of his green pants.

They are high-waisted, with a long button fly of decorative silver buttons.

Seems impractical to you, but that’s fashion in a nutshell.

There are seven buttons, which is a lot for men’s trousers, but nothing insurmountable.

Gazing up at Sterling, you pop the topmost button, the one on the waistband.

“Poor baby,” you croon. “Did your mean ol’ stylist put you in the bad pants?”

Sterling gazes down at you. His blue eyes are ever-so-slightly bloodshot, and his smile is crooked.

You realize that he’s a little drunker than you originally estimated.

Maybe he was still metabolizing the alcohol on your journey from the mezzanine to the green room.

In any case, he’s nice and tipsy. You’ve never seen him like this before.

You silently add this expression to your mental catalog of The Many Faces of Sterling Grayson.

“You’re being condescending,” he says, pouting a little bit.

The second button gives way. “Yeah, baby. I am.” The endearment burbles from your lips before you can help it.

Your view from the floor allows you to see the way the muscles in his thighs tighten at your words.

Interesting. Your fingers play over the third button.

“But what are you going to do about it?”

“ Kai .” The way he says your name is petulant, drawing out the vowel sound. “I need to pee. Don’t be mean to me.”

You run your thumb over the smooth, flat surface of the button before you undo it.

“Sounds like bad planning,” you murmur. “To do all that drinking when your pants are like a straitjacket. Seems like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“I didn’t pick them,” he says. “It was Lydie.”

“Hmm.” You shake your head slowly, and sit back on your heels. “Not what I remember. I seem to recall that Lydie left four or five outfits on the rack for you. The stylists always do. You’re Sterling Grayson. Sterling Grayson always gets to choose. I think you liked those tight pants. ”

He bites his lip. “I liked the color!” he protests. “The green…”

“Oh, I know you like green,” you say. “Looks so pretty with your eyes.”

Rolling his hips in your direction in a way that probably wasn’t meant to be as sexy as it is, Sterling groans. “The buttons, Kai.”

“In a minute,” you say patiently. “We’re getting to the bottom of whose fault the pants are.”

Sterling narrows his eyes. In his slightly swimmy gaze, you see a telltale flicker: the moment that this scene between the two of you goes from being a question mark to an exclamation point.

Until now, you’ve just been messing with him because it’s amusing.

The newness of him being drunk around you led to some charged banter.

But there’s a quiver in his legs and an intensity to the way his teeth are gnawing his lip that’s telling you something.

You aren’t sure where it’s going, but you are game. (For Sterling, you’re always game.)