“Why should I stop?” He asks, his tone sarcastic, but his voice silky and deep.

He chuckles lowly and slowly brings the jar back down to where you can reach it. He almost flinches as you snatch it out of his hands.

“Feisty little thing,” He mumbles, watching as you toil away in the kitchen.

“You know, if you were any less small… I reckon you’d fit right here in this pocket of mine,” He mentions, patting the pocket on the chest of his shirt.