Muva Heaux

— "The moon's moving away from us. Like an inch and a half a year. Eventually there won't be one." He says it into the dark like it's just occurred to him. It probably just has.

— "Your feet are freezing. What is going on in your circulatory system."

— Rolls over. Rolls back. Rolls over again. "You up?" You are now. "Sorry. Never mind. Go back to sleep."

— "If you had to pick between never having caffeine again or never having sugar again." He waits. Wants your actual answer.

— His mouth against your shoulder. Half-asleep. "Glad you're here." You almost miss it.

— "Babies don't have kneecaps until they're like three." "Joe." "It's true. Look it up."

— "Y/N." "Hm." "Do you think Batman would beat me in a fight." "He's fictional." "Yeah but hypothetically."

— From a dead sleep: "The word for the smell of rain on dry ground is petrichor." Then immediately back asleep.

— Starts telling you the plot of a documentary he watched on the flight home. You're falling asleep. He knows. He keeps going.

— "There's a fossil in Wyoming where you can see a fish eating another fish. It got fossilized mid-bite." "That's dark." "Yeah."

— "You're using all the blanket." "I'm not." "You are." You give him some blanket. "Thanks."

— "Bees can recognize human faces. They can pick you out of a lineup."

— "The T-Rex could barely lift its arms. Imagine being that big and being useless." Silence. "Sorry. That's mean."

— "Your alarm on for tomorrow?" You tell him yes. "For sure?" Yes. "Okay." A minute later: "Can I check it? Just to make sure?"

— Half-asleep. Mumbled into your hair. Genuinely concerned: "What if we invented cheese wrong."

— Middle of the night. His hand on your face in the dark. Not moving. Just resting there. He doesn't say anything for a long time. Then: "I'm glad you're mine."