[winter]
They both flopped onto the sofa, him sprawling over half of it and her sitting cross-legged on the other. She had her hands pressed against the warm mug, a caramel-like smell wafting from it and filling up the living room.
He put his hands over hers, and inquired, "you really love butterscotch, don't you?"
She nodded, taking a sip from the mug and pulling him closer.
Let go, it's going to spill.
"But it's warm; you're warm."
Go turn on the heater then.
"It is on."
Really? Okay.
She pulled one hand out of his grip, and pried his fingers off the mug.
He whined, and tugged on her sweater.
Go make one yourself, the recipe is stuck on the fridge.
"No, you make it better."
So what?
"You're a barista. Of course you make it better. Also there's extra love."
She thrust the mug into his hands and stalked off into the kitchen.
"I love you," he called after her.
I know.
