I expect this to shatter the vulnerable mood passing between us, but it does the opposite. It creates a memory. A core memory that I will never forget. Thatcher laughs. And it is not cold or sour. No, it’s rich and filled with passion. Like ripples in a still pond after a stone has been thrown across it, it radiates outward, pulls at the edges of his eyes, and quickly becomes my favorite sound. I don’t even realize it’s made me smile until he pecks my forehead with his lips, the remnants of his laughter tickling my skin. “Eat,” he murmurs, “before your stomach eats itself.”
