Their language of flowers, pajamas, and that look one of them always had on their face as they looked at the other.
She started to raise the glass to her lips, flashing a smile and darting her eyes back down before she took a sip. He couldn't help but notice every detail of her face, her messy hair, her footsteps as she retreated back to the room filled with light shining in through the window.
He looks at her and wonders how, despite everything, every single one of the decisions he'd made in his life had led him to this exact moment. Was it the smell of desperation that trailed behind him the day they met? The money? The dashing good looks? "It's the dry humor," he thought.
No, the truth was that it wasn't any of those things. She had fallen for the one thing he'd never shown anyone else: his true self. She fell in love with him the moment he started leaving crumbs of his personality she found in his odd sense of humor, his ability to make it seem like it's just them in whatever room they're in, in the way he could find at least one thing to lighten up any bad situation. It was the way he let her see who he really was that she admired, that she adored about him. Those were the moments, that split second of realization that this person was the one she'd be willing to see every single day of her life. This was the person she wanted to spend Saturdays in pajamas with; the one she wanted to come home to after long days whether he has flowers in hand or not. This person was her home.
