waking up, him grinning like an autistic child at you - the can-opener - you; with one disoriented "wtf?", you realize: he just made you breakfast. awww.

the blushing that was too soon for the day, all because he whisked lint from off your dress in mid-sentence.

that morning's drive to the DA's office, the let's-just-stay-in weather, his ratty carseat, and the separation anxiety disorder.

"heart. soul. brain. phone. sanity. am i leaving out anything?"
"me."

the criminally saccharine holding your hand under the table, but your waist in church.