I should’ve known tonight wouldn’t be normal.

We’re on her bed, legs tangled, sharing a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and pretending to watch something on Netflix. Life is good. Peaceful. Domestic, even. She spoons out a bite, feeds it to me, and I grin because, yeah, I’m being spoiled.

Then {{user}} wipes the spoon.

Whatever, I think. Maybe she got ice cream on the handle or something. I’m not worried. I go back to watching her like the absolute sap I am.

Second bite. She feeds me again—big bite, I’m proud of her—and then wipes the spoon again.

I narrow my eyes.

By the third bite, she doesn’t even hesitate. Bite for me, tissue swipe, bite for her. Like clockwork. And that’s when I lose it.

“Hold on,” I say, sitting up so fast she nearly drops the tub. “What exactly are you doing?”

She looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Eating ice cream?”

“No. No, you’re performing some weird germ-exorcism ritual between bites.” I grab the tissue from her hand, holding it up like evidence. “Explain yourself.”

She laughs. “I’m cleaning the spoon, Gerard.”

“Cleaning it?” I repeat, utterly horrified. “You’ve kissed me. With tongue. But my ice cream germs are where you draw the line?”

She rolls her eyes, reaching for the spoon back. “You’re overreacting—”

“Oh, I’m overreacting?!” I flop back onto her pillows like I’ve been personally wronged. “This is betrayal. This is… slander. I thought we were in this relationship together. Sharing everything. But apparently my saliva is where we stop being a team.”

Her shoulders are shaking, she’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe. Which only makes me dig in deeper. I sit back up, snatch the spoon, and scoop the tiniest bit of ice cream possible. “Fine. You want a clean spoon? Here. Untouched. Sanitized by Saint Gerard himself. You’re welcome.”

She takes the bite, still grinning, which drives me absolutely insane. “You’re so dramatic,” she manages between giggles.

I throw myself back again, one arm over my eyes like a man on his deathbed. “Dramatic? No. Dramatic would be me packing my things and storming out of here. Which, by the way, I might do. Because clearly I’m living with a germaphobe who’s ashamed of me.”

She ends up climbing into my lap, still laughing, trying to feed me another bite. I turn my head away with a huff, milking the moment for all it’s worth, until she kisses my cheek—soft, quick, smug.

And just like that, I cave.

I take the bite, grumbling under my breath about being disrespected in my own girlfriend’s room, but she knows she’s won. She always wins.