Her brown eyes narrow on me, and I throw her a smile. I’ll eat it, I don’t care if it was black. She made it for me; I will eat it.
“I guess dinner is ready,” she sighs.
“Thank you,” I mutter into her temple.
She grunts and grabs two pasta bowls for us and fills them.
We sit down, and I look for the bread, and instead of asking for it, I get up and grab a plate, putting a few less burnt pieces on it.
“You really don’t need to eat that,” she says as I sit down.
I shrug and take a bite of it. It crunches like a crouton, but I pretend it’s fine, and the pout on her face transforms into a small smile.
She eats and watches me take a bite of the bolognese. It melts in my mouth, and I groan, taking another bite. “Holy crap, stubborn,” I mumble.
Her teeth grab her lower lip and her cheeks turn pink. “I’m assuming that means it’s good.”
“Damn straight,” I say with my mouth full and take another bite of garlic bread.
We eat in silence, and it’s not because we don’t have things to say, but we’re too busy looking at each other. It comes through the way Mae watches my hands. The way I can’t stop staring at her lips.
She’s naturally quiet, but everything she does speaks more than words.
Forcing my eyes from watching her eat, I check my phone again.
“Good?” she asks.
I nod and crunch on the bread.
She shakes her head. “You are actually killing me by eating that.”
I shrug. “You seem to forget I’m a man who had to learn how to cook for more than one, in more than a sandwich format. I’ve burnt plenty of things and eaten them anyway. I’m not bothered.”
“Okay, but you don’t have to,” she pushes.
I take another bite, and she rolls her eyes, taking a piece and lifting it to her lips. She bites into it and makes a face.
“This is terrible, you liar,” she mumbles and chases her garlic bread with water.
I wink and take another bite of my garlic bread. Her only response is to pout. I love when she pouts.
When we finish eating, I help her gather the dirty dishes and flip on the water to get it hot, and add soap to it.
Mae gets the leftovers put away. I rush her, crowding her against the counter and peck her lips. “Thank you for dinner.”
She hums. “If this is the thank you I get every time I cook dinner. I could get used to this.”
I kiss her again.
“I want you to get used to it. I want you to expect it,” I tell her.
She sighs, and I tug her ponytail and lift an eyebrow. “Okay?” I push.
“Cooper —,” she says, but I silence her with a kiss.
“None of that.” I tell her and spin around to the dishes.
A towel snaps and lands on my butt. “Owe!” I yell.
