I expect her usual sarcastic retort, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she just looks at me, like she’s trying to figure something out. Like maybe she wasn’t expecting me to notice.

“You—” She clears her throat, shaking her head. “Since when do you take care of people?”

I shrug, keeping it casual, even though the way she’s looking at me makes my chest feel tight. “Since you, apparently.”

Her lips press together, and I can tell she’s trying not to react. But she does. It’s subtle, but it’s there—in the way she shifts her weight, in the way she suddenly won’t meet my eyes. And I can see the minute she brushes it all off. The second she tries to play whatever this is going on between us as nothing more, nothing less than her fake husband trying to be nice.

Much the same way I’ve been.

This is dinner. It’s supposed to be light. To be easy. To not leave these unanswered questions lingering above us so that it’s anything but that.

“Let’s eat,” I say to try and will that into existence.

“Please. I’m starving.” Her smile widens.

But when she reaches for the container in my hand, I pull it out of reach.

“Not so fast, Cookie,” I say. “First, you have to do something for me.”

Hendrix crosses her arms, already exasperated. “I literally just worked ten hours. If this is some kind of weird drummer initiation, I swear—”

“Nothing weird. Just say: Thank you, Jase. You’re the best husband I’ve ever had, and I don’t deserve you.”

She stares at me. “You’re the only husband I’ve ever had so that doesn’t work.” Then, without warning, she lunges.

I laugh, easily dodging her attempt to grab the food, holding it higher. “That’s not the magic phrase, Hendrix.”

She huffs. “I am not saying that.”

“Then no dumplings for you.”

Her jaw clenches. “You’re such an ass.”

“An ass who ordered you dinner,” I remind her, taking a dramatic bite of a dumpling. “Mmm. So good.”

Her glare could probably set me on fire.

I grin wider. “I can’t believe how delicious these are.” I make an exaggerated moaning sound just to mess with her.

“Okay, fine!” She huffs. “Thank you, Jase. You’re the worst first husband I’ve ever had, and I definitely don’t deserve the emotional abuse of watching you eat my favorite food.”

I chuckle. “Not what I had in mind, but you’re not exactly one who conforms.” At least not anymore and that’s fucking awesome in my eyes.

I offer her the container and our fingers brush. Linger. “Thank you for this. For dinner. For noticing. For the laughter.”

“You deserve it and then some,” I murmur.