Is that what that was? Hm. [She turns to go back to where she was indeed raiding the fridge, inspecting its contents. He's improved his eating habits, she's pleased to find. Not a single bag of Funyuns in sight, thank god—they did such awful things to one's breath. And even though she knows that this sudden health food kick stems from unhealthy places, she's secretly glad that he's no longer being fueled by high-fructose corn syrup , red dye number seven, and sugar.

She notices, of course, the liquor cabinet, but that's the one thing she refuses to comment on, because she knows more than anyone what it's like to need to drink, and what it's like to be scolded for it. She doesn't think Dave has a problem, but her own issues with alcohol are so personal that she can't bring herself to even warn him away from it.

She turns, closing the fridge and leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. Dave is shirtless, which she's used to by now, and she can tell he's gotten stronger, as his pallid teenage-boy body turned to lean muscle marred with the occasional scar—

she'd like to trace her fingers all over those scars, maybe her lips too—

but she has the self-control not to stare. Her black lips curve into a smile at his scolding.]

It isn't my fault it's so well-stocked with phallic vegetables. Are we trying to send a message, David?