This is wrong.
They don’t do this.
They fight. He serves her food, she begrudgingly thanks him, complains her cooking is superior (as well as her manners), glares whenever she sees him glancing her way.
And the infuriating man smiles. Always.
Even after they fight, sure, he yells, throws his arms around, but the next day, without fail, he smiles.
Always reminding her that her efforts are fruitless, that she cannot taint his good opinion of her.
She doesn’t understand him.
He is sunshine, hot tea, warm welcomes and pats on the shoulder, soft whites and comforting greens. He is beloved, looked up to. The ladies swoon and secretly she’s sure the men do too.
Why does he insist on being kind to her?
She’s rain, shy greetings and hurried steps. She is demure black dresses, solitary lunches and thin lip lines. She doesn’t have friends.
Though, he would argue that’s exactly what they are.
Except, this isn’t what friends do.