What they have between them is special. It's something warm, something soft. Those are the only words to describe it; there is no defining what exists between them. It simply is.
It is sitting on the couch on Friday nights, dogs at their feet, watching UFC or a second-rate movie. It is coming home with little gifts - sheet music to play on the old, inherited upright, flowers for the window sill, even just rocks - after a long day at work. It's fighting over ordering pizza or chinese and settling on going out for Italian. It's sharing baths until the water grows cold, holding hands while driving, reading the same book, sleeping side by side every night. It's beautiful, even when it isn't perfect, and it's perfect even when it isn't beautiful. It could be better, but for now, they'll settle for this.
This soft warmth. This warm softness.
What they have between them is special. It is Love, but not the deadly kind. Not the Dangerous-Angel Love, the kind that can kill you swiftly and