"You have the most beautiful eyes."

You roll them with exaggerated sarcasm. "Oh my god, that was the corniest thing you've ever said," you respond. "You're not allowed to talk for like ten minutes."

"No, really," he urges, staring down at you with soft reverence. "They're like...the color of the sky, or those blue flavor crystals in gum."

"Oh, geez, thanks," you tease. "How romantic."

You are laying in bed on Sunday morning, with just the sheets drawn to your waist as buttery sunshine floods the room. It is a warm, lazy hour and you are drowsy with contentment. Tom is curled up at your side, one hand on your stomach, the other propping up his chin as he gazes down at you with muted adoration. You flash him a smile and tickle your fingers across his ribs, making him giggle and twist away.

"Stop it," he scolds, choking back laughter and capturing your hands in his. "I'm trying to have a touching moment here, what's wrong with you?"

"Tom, if you're trying to have a touching moment, then it isn't really touching," you point out, rolling your eyes expansively at him. "And besides. Touching moments are only good for movies. I'd much rather make out."

It's Tom's turn to roll his eyes as you drag him down for an enthusiastic kiss. "You don't have any romance in you at all, Mark," he laments, but he's smiling as he says it, unresisting in your arms.

"Nope," you agree, pushing your fingers through his thick, floppy hair as you kiss him ardently. "But I do have a hell of a mouth."