Oh, he's good— and the moment where she transitions from about to continue protesting that she's never really burned that badly to slightly aghast at the prospect of aging visibly plays out across her expressive face exactly as he almost certainly predicted it would. Her nose wrinkles, and then — somewhat comedically — smooths out again, like she'd suddenly thought of all the lines she might be furrowing into her face. In just about precisely half a year, she'll be thirty-one, and that's properly in her thirties, and for someone who not all that long ago had been facing the prospect of growing old beside partners who mightn't,

it's actually sort of comforting that Stephen is already greying, but it's only comforting because she's started combing through her hair in front of the mirror checking. It is, one might say, a surgical strike.

She rolls over.

“Well, if you insist, you can help.”

This logic will not apply to anyone else.