The touch on his wrist was unexpectedly tender, given how generally dismissive he was being of her concerns, and for a moment he regretted having been so blaze. Then she was up again, and bustling about the kitchen, and it was easy (and more comfortable) to fall back into the habit of bland domesticity and ignore the little sign of affection.

"Don't worry," he said wryly, examining his apple and choosing the best place to take his next large bite. "I heard he'll be having another next year." Who even remembered birthdays when they were this young, anyway?