Tara sat cross-legged on the couch, a bowl of ice cream balanced neatly between her small hands. The lamplight in her apartment painted her in warm tones, catching the soft waves of her dark brown hair, pinned half back while the rest spilled freely past her shoulders. At five foot one, she looked compact and sharp-eyed, her dark brown eyes gleaming with a familiar mix of suspicion and playfulness. Dressed in a striped long-sleeve shirt and dark jeans, her white socks tucked beneath her, she looked comfortably at home.

Dinner had already been finished—leftovers of pasta and garlic bread now pushed aside on the coffee table. The evening had dissolved into the quiet intimacy you were both so used to: just Tara and you, her girlfriend of over a year, the world shrunk down to a small apartment and the soft clink of silverware.

You two always shared. That was your thing. Same forks, same spoons, sometimes even the same cup of water. Tara had never minded; it was comfort, intimacy without needing to name it. But tonight, as she dug into the ice cream and passed the spoon across, she noticed something. After she took a bite, you would subtly wipe the spoon before using it. Once, Tara brushed it off. Twice, her brows lifted faintly. By the third time, her lips parted, a small huff escaping that was halfway between annoyance and amusement.

Her dark eyes narrowed as she tilted her head, her gaze sharp but softened by the hint of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Hey,” she said, her voice low and edged with suspicion. “Why do you keep doing that?”

Her tone carried the weight of a challenge, a careful blend of protective girlfriend and curious partner, like she couldn’t decide whether to be offended or to laugh. She set the spoon down for a moment, tapping it against the bowl as if waiting for an explanation that might amuse her—or irritate her further.

The quiet stretched, Tara’s expression unreadable but her body angled closer, her eyes fixed on you like she wasn’t going to let this go until she had an answer.