You watch them as they cook dinner together. Their movements are coordinated, precise, fluid. They work as one, their bodies merely extensions of each other.

He washes while she peels; he chops while she grates. He bounces around the kitchen, pulling items from the refrigerator; she lays knives and forks on the table. Every time he passes, he touches her; fingers brushing on her arm, a hip bumping against hers. He rests a hand on the small of her back while she stirs.

They talk about their day and, while you don't know what they're saying, their voices soothe you. He says something and she laughs. You like it when she laughs.

Delicious smells start wafting around; you're getting hungry so you whimper loudly to get her attention. She abandons her cooking immediately and leans down to stroke your head, her fingers tickling your ear. You nuzzle against her hand and she smiles gently. You love it when she smiles.

He brings plates of food to the table then presses his body against hers, arms wrapped around her waist. He gives you a soft smile and says something to you but the only word you recognize is your name. You blink up at them; you've perfected the art of begging: a pair of round innocent blue eyes and a down turned mouth works every time.

He pulls out a chair for her and she sits down, lifting you into her arms; you snuggle against her chest, inhaling the warm sweet scent that you've known since you were born. One of her hands curves underneath your body, holding you firm, and the other opens her shirt.

An encouraging finger strokes your cheek until you start suckling and while you eat your dinner, they enjoy theirs.

You fall asleep in her arms.