“You plated them for me. That is not the same thing as ownership.”
He ignored that, brought the fork near my mouth, and waited.
I stared at him.
“No.”
His brows lifted. “No?”
“I am not letting you feed me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s weird.”
“It’s noodles.”
“It’s intimate noodles.”
His grin turned criminal. “Open.”
“No.”
“Texas.”
My body betrayed me before my pride could intervene.
I opened my mouth.
He fed me one careful bite, watching me the entire time like he had somehow turned dinner into a dare. The noodles were warm and sweet-spicy, but all I could focus on was the look in his eyes and the way his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth after.
“There,” he said. “Survived.”
I swallowed.
Barely.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Making everything feel like foreplay.”
His eyes darkened.
The air changed so fast I wished I had kept my mouth shut.
Drew leaned back slowly, plate in one hand, fork in the other, like he was giving me the chance to pretend I hadn’t said it.
I looked at the television.
Aggressively.
A woman on-screen was explaining how to properly season roasted carrots.
I had never cared more about vegetables in my life.
Drew chuckled under his breath and went back to eating.
