I answered the knock in a robe tied lazy and waved the cart to the bed. The silver dome lifted, steam hugged the air, and I plated the cheesecake like I knew what I was doing. You sat in the chair I pointed to—the one across the tray, close enough to smell vanilla.

“Here’s how this goes,” I said, sliding a fork through the soft edge. “You keep your hands on the arms of the chair and your eyes on my mouth. If I tap the plate twice, you breathe. If I tap once, you swallow whatever you were about to say.”

I dragged the fork slow and let the tip of my tongue clean the prongs. Your jaw tightened real pretty. “If we were on the phone,” I teased, “I’d have you set a spoon on your nightstand and follow the sounds. Spoon click, you pause. Plate slide, you start again. I’d make dessert a metronome.”

Halfway through the slice I stood and circled the tray. “You’ve been very good,” I murmured, setting the fork down. “Which means I get to be generous.” I leaned on the chair arms and kissed you once—slow, sweet—then licked a dot of cream from your lip with a guilty little smile.

“Call me when you’re alone,” I said, tying my robe again. “I’ll feed you the rest—bite by bite—until you can’t keep your manners.”