The look she shoots him back is absolutely shameless, her foot nudging playfully at his under the table.

Still, she makes a show of wrinkling her nose at his food, taking a heaping spoonful of cobbler and ice cream and swallowing it down.

“Bet yours tastes like shit a la mode,” she counters lamely, curling her legs up underneath herself. Her muscles still ache, the exhaustion still tugging at her limbs, but at the very least the dessert-first tactic does provide some comfort. She hums contently, pointedly avoiding looking at his bowl of stew.