"I need you to stretch me goood after this, okay?"
Bryce choked on air.
"Don't put it like that, honey… that sounded like a crime."
He shook his head as if trying to physically fling the mental image out of his brain.
Lyra blinked, confused.
"O-oh, I'm sorry! I just meant his hands are sooo good! Like, way better than anyone else who's ever—y'know, tried me."
Bryce paused mid-breath and slowly faceplanted into his palms.
"What?!"
Lyra asked, genuinely surprised.
"Run. That. Back."
Lyra put a finger to her lips, thinking.
"Well... I said he isn't like the others, and his hands are soooo good, like, can perform better—"
"Why are you emphasizing 'sooo goood' like it's a moan in a brothel? Can't you say it like a normal person? 'His hands are effective.' Boom. Done."
"But you understood what I meant, right?"
"...Well, yes."
"Then shut up."
Their bickering spiraled immediately into married-couple levels of passive-aggressive sass.
