I shake my head. “Still can’t believe you remember that.”
“Still can’t believe you tried to convince me it was ‘nutritional.’”
“I was broke and starving. It was survival.”
Her laugh breaks out before I’m prepared for it—the real, unfiltered one that pulls her whole face into it.
“I forgot you were funny,” she says.
“I forgot you were tolerable.”
She nudges my foot under the blanket, and I nudge back before I can stop myself.
“You always got mean when you were full,” she teases.
“And you always got smug when you made me laugh.”
Her eyes warm. “Did I make you laugh?”
“Once. Accidentally.”
She presses a hand to her chest. “Wow. I’ll cherish that forever.”
“Don’t. It’s already fading.”
She tosses a napkin at my face. I lean away from it with entirely too much effort and watch it flutter to the floor.
“Jeez, you’re still dramatic,” she mutters.
“You’re still a menace,” I shoot back.
“I’m delightful.”
“You’re a hot mess in a bathrobe.”
She smirks, and I feel the shift again. Something in the room settles and stirs at the same time, and I know exactly what it means.
We’re not drifting back into old habits.
We’re already in them.
“Thank you,” she says.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
She lifts a shoulder. “It sounded like awe.”
I blink at her. “You are so exhausting.”
“And yet,” she says, dragging it out just to irritate me, “you’re still here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Temporarily.”
“Sure,” she shoots back, popping the last bite of brownie into her mouth. “Just long enough to clean up dog crap, run me a bath, feed me lunch, and watchLegally Blondewithout a single sarcastic comment.”
“You’re keeping score?”
“I’m a woman. Of course, I keep score.”
