A/N: What can I say? It's the weekend, and I've been watching season five and drinking sparkling peach Fresca for the past five hours. You do the math.

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He was the first one to tell her that jam wasn't the opposite of man.

The first one to pay for her coffee when her day had been lousy (did he know?), and the first to swathe her in a blanket and eat fat-free, sugar-free, taste-free chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream with her at the crack of dawn (he knew).

He was the first one to learn her secrets (those panties would remain a legacy), the first to tell her his (it looked and felt like a regular nipple); the first to sleep on her couch, and the first to sublet his own (it smelled like boy).

He was the first to offer her a nest on which to fall back, the first to promise both the rooster and the egg. He was the first to repent his inability to follow through (she felt it, too).

His was the first face she saw in the mornings, and the last at nights, and her friends would eternally ask: what is he like? Is he romantic? Did it all turn out as you had hoped?

He was the one to break silences (he still does), the one to make laughter a compensation for his childhood traumas (oh, how she knew). The first to truly comfort her (London, baby). The first to compare their trysts to various dictionary definitions (what was he thinking?).

No, it was not as she had hoped.

It was everything else.

(And it was breathtaking).