We settled again and drank Chardonnay or maybe Pinot Grigio and watched the latest Marvel movie. He dealt with the room service guy and brought in the massive tray, spreading out our dinner on the mattress.

“Aren’t you afraid of crumbs in bed?” I asked.

“It’s the best option in this room. We’re not eating on the floor.” He shuddered.

“Good point.”

Besides, having the bedspread gone meant I was in bed with Henry as opposed to just on top of it. There was a distinction, and the intimacy of sitting cross-legged together on the sheets eating our gnocchi and caprese salad and so many delicious, carby, fatty things comforted me.

Henry ate slowly, clearly savoring every bite. It was probably the understatement of the century to say it was unlikely he allowed himself to indulge very often. That he was doing it with me—for me—was powerful in a way I couldn’t really explain.

Thoughts of Mr. Webber flitted in and out. Never really gone, but not crushing. The distraction of food and wine and superheroes and Henry was everything I needed, and I was intensely grateful.

As I ran my spoon through a pot of seriously the best chocolate mousse ever, I quietly said, “Thank you.”

Henry swallowed a bite of tiramisu, and our eyes met. The moment stretched out, the people on TV shouting about something, the rat-a-tat of gunfire echoing. A cocoa-dusted crumb from the top layer clung to his bottom lip, and I almost reached over to brush it free.

He gave me a little nod before turning back to the movie and his dessert again.

I blurted, “I hope he was proud of me.” I couldn’t look at Henry, afraid I’d see a horrible truth written on his face since he was so bad at lying. “Do you think so?”

I had to look.

Lowering his spoon, Henry regarded me with his usual silent intensity, his eyes serious under those thick lashes. “Yes.”

With that one, beautiful word, I knew he was telling the truth. And I knew I wanted Henry to be proud of me too.

When I looked over to ask him if he wanted more wine, Henry wasn’t watching the movie. His gaze whipped up to meet mine, and he turned his face back to the TV, his always impressive posture straightening even more.

There was so much I wanted to say, but I rolled my lips inward and forced myself to stay silent. I glanced down, and oh. My robe had gaped open, and half my chest was exposed, including a nipple.

And Henry had very much been staring at my bare chest.

And that had very much been desire written all over his gorgeous face.

It was seriously amazing that I used to think of him as a robot or alien with a consistently flat expression. Once you knew what to look for, Henry’s face practically shouted his feelings.

The flicks of his gaze, the minute tightening of his mouth or lifts of lips. The wrinkle of his nose, the widening of his eyes. The faint blush on his cheeks. All of these appearing for brief flashes before he seemed placid again.