“You know you aren’t required to cook me food, right? Or to have dinner ready for me when I get home. I don’t…” He takes a sip of coffee, clearly trying to find the correct words. “Just—don’t feel like you have to do that, okay?” The funny thing is, I don’t feel like that at all; I like making him dinner. It’s oddly satisfying, watching the way Carter’s eyes light up when he sees me cooking for him.
