Jane imagined their romance to be one defined by big moments; after all, they fell in love over chasing a serial killer. He orchestrated a fake letter to lead her on a romantic getaway. He declared his love to her on a plane. She got off said plane and bartered her way into TSA holding to return her affections. Their love was to be grand, he supposed.

And yet, two months in, he finds the smaller moments to be far more significant.

Loving Lisbon, he discovers, is as easy as breathing.

He sleeps better next to her. Relishes in her close proximity and quiet words right before their eyes finally shut. But sometimes—sometimes and other times and strange days—she nods off while his mind agonizes. His synapses cannot stop firing, words battering against his skull, and he overthinks. Oh, how he overthinks: it's almost a skill, his ability to read and reread until the sentences lose all meaning.

So, he lies awake, and he watches her. Compares the curve of her nose to a statue he once saw in Rome, the hollow of her throat to a depth he'd like to explore, the hard lines of her shoulder to Austin city streets. He knows her, considers her, thinks how he is not him without her.

How long did he wish for this moment before he let himself realize it?

His finger traces over the dip of her spine, counting each vertebra. C5, C6, C7. He likes numbers, the absolute in them, how with one comes two and so far and so forth. For years, his days melted into weeks, then months. Dates held no meaning. He wouldn't be able to discern a Tuesday from a Friday, would merely count on Lisbon to call him and say they've got a case.

Then—Red John was dead. Then—two years had passed in a different country, the blink of an eye and a sluggish duration at the same time. Then—he returned home. Not to the same state, but to the same person: she felt more like home than anything else. And December in Austin wasn't like December in Sacramento; things were more concrete and definite, and days felt different. Like they were real, alive.

His finger meanders down to L1, then L2. Solid and bone; tangible and Lisbon. He revels in knowing her like this, the intimacy of her warmth. Soft, ivory skin under his tanned, hardened touch. But she never sees him as someone rough around the exterior, abrasive and unruly; instead, she sees him as someone to love.

"What are you doing?" comes her voice, muffled into her pillow.

"Couldn't sleep," he says.

Her eyes flutter open. Even in the night, he finds them to be like emeralds, rare and for him to admire. She asks, "Why not?"

"Just thinking."

"About anything good?"

"No, it's nothing… and also everything, It's nothing and everything at the same time." He sighs, gestures to his head. "Sometimes I can't turn my mind off. You know how you think I never shut up? Just imagine having to listen to my thoughts all day."

He waits for her to make a joke, maybe scoff and laugh and say, "There are days where I feel like I am listening to your thoughts." Rather, her hand digs into his curls and her thumb finds his temple, smoothing circles over the pressure point. A soft breath escapes his lips, and he lets his eyelids slide shut.

"Teresa," he whispers.

"Shh," she whispers back, knotting her fingers through his hair, skating a delicate touch across his skin. "You're okay."

"I am," he says, finding himself to believe it.

"I'm right here, and I'll continue to be here. I can do the thinking for you."

"I don't know. It can be quite a lot."

"I've been doing it for the past ten years," she says, nearly smiling. "You're always in my head."

"Sorry for that burden."

"Not a burden." Her thumb touches his lips. "Go to sleep, Jane."

Usually, Lisbon rests her head against his chest and slings her arm across his waist. Tonight, he buries his face into the crook of her neck, taking in a deep breath. She smells like coffee and Earl Grey tea—slightly sweet and earthy and a touch of honey. His hair brushes along her jaw and she lets out a soft laugh, reverberating against his skin.

Sleep doesn't bite at him; it covers him, settles across each limb in blanketed cover. It's easy to succumb, and even easier to let go of his thoughts when she holds him tighter. Known hands on his back, his ribcage, holding him like glue.

When he wakes up, hours later and fully rested, she's still there. Lisbon never lies. It makes him smile.

Lisbon thought of Jane as the romantic. The one to say I love you, the one to initiate their first kiss, the one to lead her back to her bedroom and worship her body like it was the last thing he'd ever do.

So, when he solves their latest case—eyes bright and wide and a dangerous smile on his face—and she takes his jaw into her hands to press a kiss to his lips, all eyes are on her.

They had earlier come to an agreement that they would keep their relationship under wraps. No touching, no longing glances, and absolutely no kissing. It had not always been feasible; to be loved so wholly, so entirely without reservation by the man she has stuck with for a decade, it makes it difficult not to look at him with an extra degree. A smile lingers on her face when he enters the room, when he lays on his couch, when he brushes his hand over her shoulder blade to let her know he's thinking of her.

Their fingers may swiftly link under conference room tables and empty elevators, and once, once, his mouth slanted over hers in the privacy of her car during a case. But they've been good, cautious by all standards when it comes to new relationships (and really, what are the standards for someone you've been in love with for years?).

Except—now. Now, she tastes his mint chapstick on her lips, jerks her fingers off the sharp line of his jaw, and takes a shaky step back.

She looks at Jane; he simply grins, as cheeky and brilliant as ever.

"Cat's out the bag now, huh?" Jane says like it's a joke. He won't stop smiling. Of all the times for him to smile, this shouldn't be it.

Her cheeks flush with red. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Cho blinking at them. Either surprised that they're together or surprised that it took this long for them to openly reveal their change in relationship status; with him, it's hard to tell.

Behind her, Vega passes Wylie a ten-dollar bill with a groan, presumably losing a bet. And distantly, if Lisbon turned her head to the left, she would watch Abbot whisper "Finally" to himself. Surrounding agents take pause before returning to the bustle of FBI work, too busy to really care that the special agent and her consultant who clearly have feelings for each other just acted upon them at three p.m. on a Thursday. If anything, it's the most riveting part of the week.

(And there's been an office pool going around over who would crack first: Jane had been in the lead, but Lisbon's searing kiss proves to be a fun twist.)

"Oh my god," Lisbon blanches, mortified.

"I always knew you found me irresistible, Lisbon, but I am enjoying this particular color on you," Jane smirks. "Red cheeks, green eyes—it's very festive."

"Shut up," she says, her glance darting in his direction.

"I think it's very sweet that my girlfriend loves me enough to break protocol and kiss me at work." Jane looks over at Cho. "What do you think, Cho?"

Cho stares at his computer. "I'm not getting involved in this."

"You should have stopped me," she huffs.

"On the contrary, my dear Lisbon—I believe you should have done it sooner." He grins.

"But now everyone knows."

Wylie pipes up: "Um, ma'am, no offense or anything, but we already kinda knew."

"I didn't," Vega tries. "I swear I didn't."

"If you knew them for as long as I have, you would've," Wylie replies.

Lisbon covers her face with a regretful hand. "Were we really that obvious?"

Cho, eyes still forward, says bluntly: "Jane doesn't smile at me like he smiles at you."

Lisbon mutters, "God, Jane, you're such a hopeless romantic."

Jane takes mock offense. "As if I don't catch you staring at me!"

They don't notice Abbot step into the bullpen, shamelessly grinning. He chimes in, "Only you two would find a way to bicker about your own relationship."

Lisbon replies, "We're not bickering."

Jane grins. "Oh, we totally are. In a way, it's our own forepl—"

"How about you two go on your lunch break?" Abbot quickly insists, beckoning them with a wave of his hand.

Lisbon says, "I'm not hung—"

"That's a great idea, Dennis!" Jane exclaims, taking Lisbon's hand into his and dragging her off. "Let's go, Teresa."

"Why are you holding my hand?!"

"C'mon everyone knows about us, we can do whatever we want."

"No, we can't! Let go!"

"You haven't let go of my hand either."

"Well!—I!—I-I was going to!"

"Just admit it, Lisbon. You like the Patrick Jane boyfriend experience."

They bicker when Jane presses the elevator button and continue to bicker when the elevator doors open.

However, as the doors slide shut, it grows suspiciously quiet.

"Five bucks that they're making out in there right now," Abbot says.

Cho nearly smiles. "Deal. Wylie?"

Wylie reaches for his computer mouse. "I'll pull the security footage… Except I can't believe they would forget they're in the FBI building. Especially Lisbon. Don't they know there are cameras literally everywhere?"

Abbot grins. "Love makes you do stupid things."

Jane enjoys treating Lisbon to fancy meals. He sheds off his typical vest and jacket look for a crisp white button-up and black slacks. She wears a dress, and occasionally an embarrassed blush to her cheeks, not used to always donning such a get-up, but he pulls her into his side and whispers beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

That night, he takes her to an Italian restaurant, locking his pinky finger with hers when they enter the restaurant. Her black dress perfectly matches his pants, and he smiles, still taken aback by how well they fit together. Within their differences, they find continuous commonalities: brilliance, sarcasm, deep devoting love.

"Happy fourth month anniversary," he says, lifting his wine glass.

She laughs, clicking their glasses. "Are you the type to celebrate every single anniversary?"

"I am so close to saying something cheesy about how every day with you is a celebration—"

Her nose crinkles. "I'm happy you didn't."

"—But no, I'm not. I just needed an excuse to bring you to this restaurant. That guy in finance crimes wouldn't stop raving about it during our last case, and I knew we needed to try it out."

"So, you don't want to celebrate our four-month anniversary?" She pouts.

He groans, laughing. "You are such a mystery, woman."

She inspects the menu. "What are you thinking of ordering?"

"Hmm," he considers. "I think I'll go with the chicken parm. How about you? No, wait, let me guess… the ravioli. With lobster."

"With pumpkin," she counters. "Better luck next time."

"Oh, how you keep me on my toes, Lisbon."

Her fingers cover his hand that lays flat on the table. "You love me for it."

He smiles. "That I do."

She fumbles with her room's keycard as he crowds behind her, his mouth moving ravenously down the column of her neck. Teeth and tongue and wanting.

"Jane… Jane," she breathes. "Patrick."

"Yes?" he asks against her skin, his lips bruising.

"Someone might see."

"Don't care," he hisses. "I just want you."

She (somehow—her thoughts are muddled) is able to push open the door into her hotel room. He shuts the door by pinning her against the crudely painted steel, his mouth hot and desperate. His tongue sweeps over her bottom lip, and her mouth parts easily, fumbling with the buttons his vest. His hands, large and rough, slide under her shirt and grip the skin just above her belt. She thinks she might fall apart right here, but he props her up with feverous desire. Her fingers move from his vest up to his jaw, cradling the defined bone and reveling in the heat of his skin. His hands slide down to the back of her thighs, lifting her body with deft easiness as she squeezes her legs around his waist. He carries her to the bad and lays her down on the comforter, feeling the cheap mattress slightly sag. She sits up enough to peel off her shirt before collapsing back down. He crawls on top of her, his mouth meeting hers and then moving downwards: her jaw, her neck, her chest, her stomach.

She sucks in a breath.

She will admit—she has thought about this before. Being on a case, stuck in seedy motels with Jane in the room right next door, him sneaking over and kissing her like this. Undoing her, silencing her remarks with his greedy mouth and calculated fingers.

But thinking isn't reality, and now, here, it's almost like a prayer, falling praise to him.

"We shouldn't," she finds herself suddenly saying, her tendency to follow agency conduct cutting through.

He yanks off his shirt. "We should."

"They'll expect you to be in your own room. We're on a case."

"Abbot only got us one room."

"Oh. Oh."

"You still want me to stop?"

She grabs his face and pulls him into a searing kiss. "Never."

He holds two cones of ice cream.

"Mint chocolate chip for you." He passes her the cone. "And vanilla for me," he announces, taking a lick.

She frowns. "Vanilla? That's so boring."

"It's a classic. And for it to be a classic, that means it's a good, dependable choice. You can't beat that."

"Yes, I can."

"Try then."

"One word: chocolate."

"Meh. I'm sticking with vanilla."

"It's too predictable for you."

"Doesn't that make it unpredictable?" he argues. "Because you assumed I would get something else?"

She opens her mouth to protect, then snaps it back shut. "Just eat your ice cream, Jane."

He gives her a cocky grin before taking another bite. In the Austin heat, the sweet cream starts to dribble and melt, smearing on the tops of their lips and getting on their fingers. They laugh, laugh like they're children and it's the first week of summer vacation when anything is possible. The sun is limitless and golden, the sky impossibly blue. He looks at her; her eyebrows arch up and she smiles. Smiles wide and easy. When he had first met her, when he was broken and a sliver from splitting open, she didn't smile often. Her mouth seemed fixed into a flat line, only twitching at the occasional moment.

Now, he catches her smiling more often than not. At him, at work, at life. In the morning, when the ground is still dewy and the sky a muted grey. During the nights, sheets slipping between fingers and opportune lips caught between teeth.

And here, noon on a summer day. The sun is at the highest point it will ever be.

"What is it?" she asks, catching him in his daydream. Her eyebrows furrow. "Do I have something on my lip?"

"No," he laughs. "I was thinking—"

"When do you not?"

He gives her a pointed look before laughing again. "I was thinking about how much I like your smile."

She leans forward and kisses him. She kisses him and kisses him and he forgets the flavor of ice cream he ordered.

There's a line between when a wave rolls and breaks that she finds the color of his eyes: a blue dusted with green, fine and infinite. It's an uncommon color, and it suits him well. Only she can find it when she's looking; others would never see. Like him, she thinks. He moves past everyone a mile a minute. With her, he pauses, settles. She reaches out and touches him, pulls him back down to earth, down to her. He once hoped to blur into the background, awash in color and light. She brings him into focus.

They stretch their bodies along the sand, feeling the grit of the Orange County beach under their skin. Jane was able to convince Abbot last week that he and Lisbon deserved a vacation, petitioning that the two of them (—well, Lisbon, really) were overworked and exhausted and should go see the west coast for a week. Abbot acquiesced, knowing it was better to give in than argue with a determined Jane.

The sun is warm against her skin, the lapping waves barely touching her feet, and she breathes in the salted air. She misses California; not enough to return but enough to fondly think of the memories. The CBI, Van Pelt and Rigsby, the enduring sense of summer. California had been a constant, Jane its changing variable. She realizes that perhaps she is someone who never stays in one place forever. Chicago, Sacramento, nearly D.C., now Austin.

Her gaze falls to Jane; she only needs him.

He smiles up at the sun, eyelids shut and his mouth split open. She wonders if this was what he was like for the two years he was gone, basking in the sun, tan and bright and happy.

But she wasn't there for those two years, and the letters he had sent let her know he was always thinking of her. She's confident enough in their relationship to know he is happiest is here, next to her. The sun's warmth rivals the heat that floods her veins, syrupy and sweet with ardent love.

It makes her sit up and lean over, pressing a kiss to his lips and letting her mouth linger. He never opens his eyes, just stays smiling.

"What was that for?" he asks.

She says, "I love you," and it's that simple.

He hums. "Mmm, I love you too." His hand skims over her back and he whispers, "And I really love you in a bikini."

She rolls her eyes as she moves over onto her back, their shoulders pressed together. "Flirt."

"Yup."

Her index finger ponders over the valley of his chest. He usually wears layers: a shirt, a vest, a suit jacket. Here, bare and uncovered, she admires the breadth of his body, lined with sinewy muscles and tendons. Her hands can never hold enough of him. She says, "I guess you look good in your bathing suit, too."

"You guess?" he asks, voice pitched with amusement.

"Alright," she smiles. "You look pretty hot."

"That's what I thought."

"And all for me to enjoy."

"All yours, Teresa. I'm all yours."

They lay on the beach until she's almost sunburnt and his hair turns gold. He throws on a grey tee, and she shrugs back on her summer dress, cream and linen. They carry their sandals and feel the west coast sand under their feet. Leave their prints behind, side by side.

"I like you this way," he says.

"Which way?"

He shrugs. "Casual. Relaxed. Like you belong here."

"Really?" she smiles. "Because I was thinking about how much I miss your vests."

He feigns offense. "Excuse me, I put a lot of effort into picking out this t-shirt this morning."

She's not sure what overcomes her, but she drops her sandals and wraps her arms around his neck, kissing him. His lips are chapped and taste like salt. The ocean roars in her ears, and she's kissing Jane, and the sun beats down on her skin, and he's kissing her back.

Soulmates, she briefly thinks. This is what it must mean.

How her body perfectly aligns with his. How his mouth slots over hers. How his hands curve around her ribcage.

He is hers and she is his and together, their mouths move to create new stories of them.

He knew a day like this would come; hell, he's been in a situation like this before. One where Lisbon is in danger and he is helpless. But this time it's different, it's different. That's his girlfriend—and girlfriend isn't even enough of a word to describe her. His partner, his best friend, his other half, his Lisbon.

They lost contact with her five minutes ago, her wire presumably ripped off.

He can't breathe. His heart is in his throat, his head pounds, and he can't breathe. It's like being thrown into ice-cold water: the initial shock, how it claws at your skin and chills your veins and you swear you're still drowning even when you break through the surface.

Abbot grabs Jane's wrist. "Jane, wait."

Jane's brain screams at him, tells him to race out of the surveillance van and into the abandoned apartment building they are parked a street away from. "Lisbon—"

"—Is a trained agent who knows how operations like this work. She has Cho and Vega and ten other agents with her. I know we've lost contact, but right now, we need to wait."

"I can help her, I swear I can help her and the rest of them. I've been working in law enforcement for years—"

"Jane, I cannot risk you getting hurt or even worse. Do you know what Agent Lisbon would do to me if she found out I let you go in there?" Abbot asks.

That almost makes Jane smile.

"Give them five more minutes," Abbot says, releasing Jane from his grip. "If they do not come out by then, I will look the other way and pretend I didn't see you leave."

Jane lets out a quick breath. "Thanks, Dennis."

In the end, it doesn't take Lisbon and the rest of the team five minutes; it barely takes them two. Cho delivers the two murder suspects in handcuffs, looking moderately satisfied as he and Vega place them into a cop car. Next to him, Abbot sighs with relief and claps Jane on the back, probably out of thankfulness that he didn't have to hold up his end of the deal and let Jane run onto the scene.

Jane barely takes notice to any of this; instead, he's pushing through FBI agents and Austin PD until he finds Lisbon, finds her whole and breathing and gathered in his arms.

"Jane—" she tries to protest but it falls on deaf ears.

"I was worried," he says into her shoulder. "Just let me be worried about you for a second."

"You knew I was going to be okay," she murmurs. "I have been in worse situations with less backup."

"Don't remind me," he says wryly.

"We arrested the suspects, Jane. No one got hurt. It's a good day."

He takes a step back, his hands sliding over her arms and falling into her fingers. "I hate to break it to you, Lisbon, but I am always going to be concerned about you. And I will always try to save you. Abbot had to physically hold me back from leaving the van."

She almost laughs, as if to say typical Jane.

"You're my girlfriend—well, no, you're even more than that, whatever the word might be." He looks at her, takes in her green eyes. "The thing is Lisbon, I love you, and I intend to love you forever, so losing you kinda messes up my plans."

He waits for her to say something, maybe object and tell him he's being erratic, but she never does. Instead, she brushes her lips to his, short and sweet but says enough. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.

"Kissing me in front of your coworkers again, Teresa?" He cracks a grin. "You must really love me."

"Idiot," she quips.

But he sees her fight off a smile, knowing she doesn't mean it, and leans in for one more kiss.

"Go home, Jane," she says, swiveling her chair around to look at him. He remains curled up on his couch, a slight tilt to his lips. His eyes slowly blink her into view.

"Not until you're done," he says.

She glances at her computer. "It's already nine, and I need to complete at least another hour's worth of paperwork."

"That's okay," he rasps. "I'll stay here."

"Seriously, Jane," she sighs, knowing how stubborn he can be, "just go. I'll see you tomorrow."

He shakes his head, yawning. "Don't like going home without you. Like sleeping next to you."

She takes a hitched breath, then, her mouth betrays her and curves into a grin. "Yeah?"

He gives her a sleepy smile. "Yeah."

(After ten minutes, she calls it quits and they leave the office. He dozes off in the car with his hand clasped over hers.)

At one point, their bubble almost bursts. When he runs off and she thinks he won't return. But he does. And she takes him back.

He'll never deserve her. She'll always be better than him.

He isn't sure if she knows it. He hopes she doesn't.

He hopes she'll continue to look at him like he discovered the universe.

(Spoiler: she does).

She likes the weight of her wedding band. It's solid and sturdy, a tangible version of their love. Says, I'm here, and he's here, and we'll be this way, forever.

She and her husband—husband, Patrick Jane is her husband—make their way back to the wedding party. Her hand falls from her stomach, wanting to keep their surprise a secret for the time being, and laces her fingers with his instead. The upbeat dance music melts into a slower song by the time they step onto the dance floor—the DJ must have seen them, she thinks with a smile.

Wordlessly, Jane pulls Lisbon to him and her head falls to his shoulder as they begin swaying. Around them—Rigsby, Van Pelt, Cho, the rest of their friends and family—dance and celebrate, but it feels as though she and Jane are within their own world, unbreakable and for themselves.

"Remember when we danced at that high school reunion?" he asks, his voice a soft whisper. "I practically had to drag you onto the dance floor."

She stifles a laugh. "I wasn't prepared to dance with my coworker who I was quickly catching feelings for."

"Even then?" he questions, delighted.

"I think you knew," she hums.

"Really?"

"Mhm. You just weren't ready to face the truth."

"Were you?"

"Of course not. But saying no to you is next to impossible, so I still let myself dance with you." She smiles into his suit jacket. "Plus, I think I made every woman in that room jealous."

"More like the guys were jealous of me."

She lets out an amused laugh and swells into a content sigh. "And now we're here."

"Now we're here," he echos. He smiles into her hair. "I love you, Teresa."

"I love you too, Patrick." His first name still feels foreign to her tongue, but she likes how it sounds. How it ties him to her, how only she gets to know him in such a way. Patrick, her husband, and Patrick, her partner, and Patrick, the love of her life. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.

He takes the lead when they dance, cluing her in on his rhythm as if it were a secret. It is one thing she has always noticed about him: how he seems to have his own beat, bouncing on the balls of his feet, light and second nature. A boyishness is trapped within him, no matter how they age and endure. It adds a spring to him, pulls at his muscles and lines his cheeks with joy. It makes her smile to think that the tragedies he had seen never fully extinguished his fire.

The slow song fades into something more uptempo, and he starts jumping and laughing, pressing his mouth to hers and letting their teeth messily clank. Among the noise and the lights is her husband: his flaxen curls and white teeth, strong arms and quick words, unruly charm and sleight of hand.

She sees him.

She always sees him.

He never knew how much he wanted to be a father again until he holds his newborn son in his arms. Blinking green eyes stare up at him—not like Patrick's eyes, a touch of blue amid the green, but more like Lisbon's: deep and vast with jade. Jane likes details, likes learning and committing them to memory. He looks at his son's eyes, round and green; his son's lips, pink and bowed; his son's cheeks, pale and chubby. He looks at the faint wisps of his son's blonde hair and already senses the serious gaze he will gain from his mother. He sees himself and his wife within an hour of knowing their son, and it makes him smile. Over a decade of love—sometimes hard and unforgiving, and then eventually, quiet and knowing—is held within his hands.

"Hi, Connor," Jane says. "I'm your dad. I can tell in your eyes that you know—us Janes are very intuitive—but I thought I should introduce myself."

"I'm really happy you're here," he continues. "More than you'll ever truly know. Your mom and I… well, I might tell you our story someday. About where we met and how we got here. But for now, all you need to know is that you are loved."

Jane's eyes flit over to his wife who quietly sleeps. After fifteen hours of labor, Jane would say she deserves it. He smiles at how serene she looks, her mouth set in a gentle line, her hair sprawled across the pillows. He knows she will be a good mom; he has seen her interact with children during cases, with her own nieces and nephews.

Jane hadn't considered being a father again, but with Lisbon by his side, it feels meant to be.

Connor drifts to sleep in his father's arms, and Jane presses his lips to the crown of Connor's forehead as if trying to solidify this moment. He doesn't want to ever put down his son. He wants to hold him forever, take solace in his warmth and sweet, powdery scent.

"Hey," he hears his wife say, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"Hey," he echoes.

"How's he doing?"

"He's perfect."

Quietly, "I still can't believe he's here."

"Me neither."

"I've never been happier, Patrick."

He smiles. "Me too." Then, "Thank you, Teresa."

"For what?"

"For letting me be a father again,"

She sits up and slides over on the bed, motioning for him to sit next to her. He does. She brings her hand to his cheek, tilting his face to her. "Patrick, you never weren't a father. I know you'll try to argue me on that but, this—" she gestures to Connor tucked into Jane's arms—"this will always be who you are. Connor's lucky to have you."

He gives her a watery smile, touching his shoulder to hers. "I think I'm the lucky one."

They look up at the constellations, golden in the sky. Nights aren't dark at their cabin; they're luminous, alive.

"I love you," he says.

"Yeah?" she teases. She hears him say it all the time.

"Forever, and ever, and a few days after that," he says.

He points up. "See the North Star? You can always find it. It's the one star that never fades."

"Kinda like you," she says.

He breaks into a grin. It's brighter than all the stars.