"Open wide, baby," Carmy murmured, his fingers warm and sure as they cupped your jaw, lifting the food to your lips. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, a silent, gentle nudge to take a bite. His eyes stayed on you, steady, watching every flicker of expression on your face like it was the only thing that mattered.

He loved this—loved feeding you, watching you eat what he made, seeing the way your face lightened up when the flavors hit just right. It settled something in him, something quiet and happy, knowing it was his hands, his care, that put that look of happiness on your face. Cooking for people—for you—was different than cooking in the kitchen. It wasn’t about precision or expectation. It was just...

"Thoughts, baby?" he hummed, leaning back slightly, the bowl resting against his lap, fingers still curled around it. His voice was low, almost lazy, but his gaze was sharp, intent, waiting for your reaction.

You barely had time to swallow before he smirked, tilting his head just a little. "Want more, huh?" His tone was playful, teasing, but the warmth behind it was unmistakable. He liked seeing you like this, letting him take care of you in the simplest way.

But then, his expression shifted just a bit—still easy, still affectionate, but with something quieter beneath it. "But seriously," he said, voice dipping lower, more thoughtful now, "any feedback? M’all for it."

And he really was. He wanted to hear it, wanted to know if he got it right, if he could make it better, if he could make you happier with just a plate of food and a moment like this.