"You're making this up."
"I would never." He continued with a straight face, "'As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I, And I will love thee still, my dear, Till all the seas gang dry. And also till the coos come home at teatime no less.'"
Fenella laughed. "You're terrible."
"'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,'" he continued, ignoring her protests, "'And the rocks melt wi' the sun, And the Highland coos learn to dance, In kilts sized extra-large for their bums.'"
"Stop," she gasped between giggles. "You're being disrespectful to Scottish literature."
"On the contrary. I'm enhancing it, and Burns would approve. He was very fond of coos."
"He was not!"
"He was. There's an entire chapter about it in his biography.Burns and Bovines: A Story of Deep Appreciation."
She swatted his chest. "There is no such book."
"There could be." He set the poetry aside and wrapped both arms around her. "Should I write it? I think I have a calling."
"Your calling is to stop desecrating our culture."
"Never." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I just love hearing you laugh, and nothing is too sacred to be sacrificed on the altar of your happiness."
"Now, that was poetic." She put her coffee cup on the side table and cupped his cheeks. "And deserving of a proper kiss."
He dropped the poetry book, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her deeply, pouring all of his love for her into the kiss.
"I should probably get ready for work," she said when they came up for air, though she made no move to get up.
"You have time." He gestured to the octopus lamp. "Harold doesn't think you need to leave for another twenty minutes."
"You named your lamp Harold?"
"He looks like a Harold. Very distinguished."
"That lamp is the least distinguished thing I've ever seen."
"Which is precisely why he needs a distinguished name. For balance."
She shook her head but couldn't stop smiling. "And the painting? Does it have a name too?"
"That's obviously 'Dogs Playing Poker: The Scottish Edition.' It's self-naming."
"Obviously." She rested her head against his chest. "I love our home. I just want you to know that."
"Even Harold?"
"He's growing on me."
Din laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "That's the nicest thing you've said about my decorating choices."
"Don't get used to it." She glanced at the clock, a nice one that she'd selected. "I really do need to get ready now."
"Five more minutes?"
"Atzil will have my head if I'm late. He's still grumpy about me taking the whole week off."
"You deserved a week off. You deserved a month off. A year, even."
