Sweeney can't decide if she's rubbing against him to rile him up on purpose, or if it's just an ignorant accident. The temptation exists to wriggle his hand down between them and feel her out, but for the moment, he's able to restrain himself. It's not easy when she gets that pink in her cheeks. His mind swirls with half-formed wickedness, dozens of ways to deepen that pink to red.

But then she's being sweet, and returning such is the least he can do. A small, encouraging smile accompanies his nod.

"Good wife," he adds, an apt descriptor. His brow lifts in cautious tenderness.

"Happy?"