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“Grilled cheese?”

I turn my head slowly. “Again?”

“You got a problem with my grilled cheese?”

“No. I’m just noticing a theme.”

“What theme?”

“You’ve stopped ordering all those little meals in the glass containers.”

His mouth pulls to one side. “Yeah. Well.” He stretches an arm along the back of the couch. “Got a little woman living under my roof now. Apparently I’m domestic and shit.”

I stare at him.

He grins.

“Did you seriously just call me your little woman?”

“I said a little woman.”

“Oh, good. Much better.” I actually preferred the other way, but I would never admit it. Not the little woman part, but the being his. I reach over and shove his shoulder, but he barely moves. “Misogynist.”

“That’s a little dramatic. But honestly, it’s because the lady, Patricia, had hip surgery, so she’s been off.”

“Oh, well… you still called me a woman.”

“You’re a woman. But I was teasing, by the way. Besides, we both know cooking isn’t really your thing.”

“Excellent observation.”

“And you’re littler than me.”

“Everyone is smaller than you, Shrek.”

He laughs, and I shove him again.

“Make your own grilled cheese then.”

“Gladly.” I push myself up from the couch. “Considering I mainly survive on pizza and takeout and your two specialty dishes are pancakes and grilled cheese, we’re not exactly Iron Chefs over here.”

“First of all, my grilled cheese is elite.”

“It’s bread and cheese.”

“That’s insulting.” He scoffs.

“It’s accurate.”

He gets up behind me. “And second, I can cook other shit.”

I glance back. “Name three things.”

“Pancakes.”

“Already established.”

“Eggs.”