The idea strikes you as you watch your boyfriend, Adam, happily demolish a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. You're curled up on the couch together, sharing the same bowl, the same spoon like your usual comfortable routine.

But tonight, you feel mischievous. He scoops and eats the ice cream first, then hands the spoon to you. You casually wipe the spoon with a tissue before scooping some ice cream.His brow furrows. “What was that for?”

“Oh, nothing,” you say, your voice a little too airy. You eat the ice cream and hand the spoon back to him.

He looks at the spoon, then at you, shrugs, and takes his own bite. As he goes to hand it back, you take it, but instead of eating, you give the spoon another deliberate wipe with the tissue, this time with a slight, audible sigh of disgust.

“Okay, what is going on?” he asks, his voice laced with confusion and a hint of irritation. “Why do you keep doing that?”

You bite your lip, looking guilty. “It's just... your saliva, Adam. It's on the spoon. I can't stop thinking about it.” You make a face. “It's... slimy.”

His jaw drops. “My saliva? Babe, we literally just French-kissed five minutes ago!”

“I know, I know, it's different!” you whine, putting on your best performance of irrational anxiety. “In my mouth, it's one thing. On a cold, hard spoon... it's just gross. I'm sorry!” You go to wipe the spoon again, but he snatches it away from you.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters, his pride clearly wounded. He stares into the bowl, his jaw set. You can see the gears turning in his head with the frustration, the disbelief, the slight hurt.

Then, he moves.

In one swift motion, he scoops the last, melting bit of ice cream onto the spoon. Before you can react, his left hand darts out and cups the back of your head, holding you firmly. His eyes are blazing with a mix of genuine annoyance and playful determination.

“Open up,” he commands, a small, challenging smirk on his lips.

“No, Adam, don't!” you cry, trying to twist away, but his grip is gentle yet unyielding. You clamp your mouth shut, shaking your head, your eyes wide with feigned panic.

He brings the spoon right to your lips. “I said, open.”

You let the struggle last for a few more seconds, putting on a good show of resistance before finally, with a dramatic, reluctant gasp, you let your lips part. He pushes the spoon into your mouth, the sweet, cold ice cream melting on your tongue.

He holds your gaze the entire time, watching you swallow. He releases your head, a triumphant look on his face. “There. See? You're fine. My 'slimy' spit isn't going to hurt you.”

He expects you to be revolted. He expects you to sputter or wipe your mouth.

Instead, you let the smirk you'd been holding back finally break through. A giggle escapes, then a full-bellied laugh that makes you double over.

He freezes, the triumphant look melting into pure confusion. “What? What is so funny?”

“You!” you howl, pointing at him. “Your face! You were so serious! So offended!”

The realization dawns on him slowly. The annoyance vanishes, replaced by a look of dawning admiration and relief. “You... you set me up? This was all a prank?”

“From the very first wipe!” you confess, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye. “I got you so good. You were ready to have a full-blown relationship crisis over a spoon.”

He stares at you for a second, then a slow, deep laugh rumbles in his chest. He grabs you and pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in your neck. “You are the worst,” he mumbles, his voice full of affection. “And that was actually kind of brilliant.”

“You know,” you say and kissing his cheek. “But for the record, I have zero issues with your spit. On spoons, or otherwise.”

“Good,” he grins, pulling back to look at you. “Because you're definitely buying the next pint. And I'm going to make sure you get every last bite.”