Normally he’d do something silly, but he finds he desperately needs her to know how serious he is. How much in love. He hands her a shoebox wrapped in fancy wrapping paper. “Ya need new flip flops,” he says, and kisses her on the forehead. “Happy birthday, baby.” And because he can’t help himself: “Gonna do my best to not get smacked with these ones.” He takes her face in his hands and looks at her adoringly. “How many years I’ve known this face, huh? I think I lost count.”
--- "Do I?" She asks, the question on whether this is because he's done something stupid and therefore she needs new, sturdy weapons is already on her tongue, but he is ahead of her with that joke { though a slightly different variation of it }.
She grins at him despite of it. The box is clutched against her little frame as he takes her face into his hands, squishing her chubby, freckled cheeks. Her lips purse. The question is rhetoric, she thinks, but even if it hadn't been, she probably wouldn't even know the answer. "Too long." She jabs, because that comes so much easier than the sappy drivel she actually wants to verbalize, deep from within her tiny, quickly-beating heart.
"Thanks.. 'm happy yer here." She doesn't care for her birthday that much, but she'd care of he didn't care about it.. Isn't that something?
