“Reid,” she says cautiously.
I glance up innocently, raising a brow.
“If you writehockeyon that bun—”
I scoff. “Please. I’d at least writegoalie.”
The ketchup lands in two crooked lines across the top, and I keep adding more until I finish the word in capital letters. I set the tiny burger together and slide it in front of Ivy.
Carina leans forward, squinting at the word across the bun:
SLEEP
She lets out a short laugh, dropping her head as Ivy grabs the burger with both hands and immediately tries to bite the side of it.
“You know she can’t read yet, right?”
I cap the ketchup bottle and glance at our daughter, who’s now enthusiastically dismantling the entire concept of dinner.
“Someone once told me it’s a top-up,” I say. “More of what you need.”
“Mmm,” Carina agrees, taking another sip of wine as she eyes our daughter. “She definitely needs more of that.”
Ketchup is already smeared across one of Ivy’s cheeks, and the bread is slowly losing structural integrity in her hands. She babbles something approving through a mouthful, as though she’s delivering a glowing review to the chef.
Carina laughs softly beside her. “Now she’s going to expect dinner to come with motivational messaging every night.”
I slide the spatula under the last burger and lift it from the grill, setting it onto the waiting bun.
“Seems reasonable,” I say, reaching for the ketchup again.
Carina’s eyes narrow immediately. “If you’re writing ‘the D’ again,” she warns, “I’m throwing that burger straight back at you.”
“Please,” I mutter. “Have some faith in me.”
“Last time you told me it was more of what I needed.”
“Was I wrong?”
Behind me Ivy squeals again, waving the half-demolished burger like a trophy.
I squeeze the ketchup bottle, writing the words as clearly as I can, then wiping the tip of the bottle with my thumb before setting it back down.
Carina’s watching me with the wary patience of someone who knows I’m up to something but can’t quite prove it yet.
“Should I be concerned?”
I carry the plate over to her, placing it on the table in front of her.
“You’re always concerned.”
She hums thoughtfully at that, then glances down at the plate.
For a second she’s clearly expecting something stupid. But when she sees it, she freezes.
MARRY ME
The noise of the yard falls away in that strange way it does when something shifts and the world hasn’t quite caught up yet.
