Sometimes she doubts his brain. Sometimes he's so crazy and so out there and so lacking in any indication of common sense that she -- anyone -- can't help but poke at him, wonder at what's actually there.

And then sometimes . . . he comes through.

She feels the corners of her mouth turn up, hidden in the curve of her arms -- just slightly, just faintly.

But there.

It doesn't fix everything. It can't. There's more here than can be fixed with words -- something born of time and weight and responsibility and the fine, knotted tendrils of those feelings she's only just starting to name.

But still, he's hit something. Something that sparks warmth, curling in her core. Something that spreads outward.

Her fist connects solidly with his bicep.