“Oh, you totally are,” she argues, walking past me. “Your jaw’s tight and your voice sounds robotic. Do you expect me to ask for permission, or are you trying to keep me locked up like some prisoner who’s only allowed to go to work?”

“That’s not it, sweetheart. I’d never want to control you like that.” I reach out, gently brushing her cheek, offering a crooked smile. “I just... Which club are you going to?”

“Why do you want to know?” she asks, suddenly ...