"Hey, being the middle child of nine means I have to learn modesty," he says with a grin.

"And I'd carry you over the shoulder," he says with a playful look, smirking around his cup of coffee. "Like a bag of potatoes. Nothing romantic."

He regrets the choice of word the second it's past his lips, but there's nothing that can be done about it beyond taking a sip of his coffee and moving on as though he hadn't said anything.

Because he hadn't, right? Right.