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“And?”

“It’s expired.”

I wince. “How expired?”

“Medically or socially?”

“Oh no.”

“Eat the banana.”

“You don’t get to command me after insulting my pantry.”

“I didn’t insult it. I assessed it.”

“Same thing in your voice.”

He pours coffee into my least embarrassing mug, the one without a uterus joke on it, and leans back against the counter. He looks too big for my kitchen and too awake for someone who spent last night doing what he did. He also looks, now that I’m paying attention, not completely here.

That’s the strange part.

He stayed. He’s watching to make sure I drink water. But there’s a distance in him this morning, a quietness that doesn’t feel like calm.

I take a bite of toast. It tastes like punishment.

Dalton notices. “Bad?”

“No,” I say, because I’m kind. “Motivational.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“It motivates me to buy better bread.”

That almost gets me a smile.

Almost.

I eat half the banana because it’s safer than the eggs, then glance at him over the rim of the water glass. “You’re weird today.”

“I woke up to a pregnant woman preparing to assault me with a textbook.”

“Don’t avoid.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You have a whole face for it.”

He takes a sip of coffee. “What face?”

“The face where everything in you leaves the room but your body stays behind to supervise.”

He looks at me for a second. Then he says, “That’s specific.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Also true.”