This part is easy to pick up, like old hat. To look up from flipping pages on the small menu, going through offerings. Figuring out what he wants to eat vs. what he considers edible vs. what actually could be slid toward and worked off harder tomorrow. Look up from that and cast her a dubious expression of suspicion laced with something like a hurt that couldn't even be skin deep sparking up at a simmer under it.

As warm and teasing, as just a little roughly correcting. "Hey. Are you saying my dining room table doesn't count?"

He's certain they'd sat down at it a handful of time. Times when other things hadn't been done to or with it.

Just because of the whole chairs and solid object for setting things on convenience.

He couldn't promise he was certain they'd made it through a meal only sitting across it. But then when left to their own devices in the house, with no plans for a weekend, clothing was so less than necessary that a bathing suit, or even one of his own shirts, especially the latter, there were always reasons then to forget sitting anywhere longer than catching up, or refueling.

Which makes her other words go down a little rough, like he swallowed something more than air. Because they are going to get to that sooner or later. To Danny. Into the conversation he stonewalled entirely with Cath, and in some ways, even with Danny, himself. But he couldn't get out of this one, either.