He was aware that that was probably not a normal term of endearment.
He added, because Raine hadn’t said anything, “That smells fantastic.”
“It’d be better with my herb-garden in it, but it’s not bad.” Raine tossed him a grin, and if any other emotion hid beneath, Don couldn’t spot it. “Pasta in bed? My toes are cold.”
This, as Raine had no doubt known it would, worked. Don promptly put an arm around him, took the bowl, and got him snuggled back under blankets. They shared a fork, and Don flipped the tiny bedroom television to some sort of cooking show—he’d been skimming across channels, and Raine made an interested sound, so he stopped—and he wanted to try homemade pesto and warm Raine’s toes up with his, always, forever.
* * * *