I still find myself hoping for it sometimes

He sits in front of the TV playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare on the Xbox 360. An hour and a half later, he saves his game, turns the console off, and gets his ass off the floor. Outside, rain falls in tiny drops, making a tip-tip-tip sound on the roof. He takes his iPod out of his backpack and plants it on its dock. With a press of a button, music blares from the speakers. Music so familiar you begin to hum along as you watch him plod off to the kitchen. You roll out of bed to follow him out of the room, Jack Johnson expertly plucking the strings of his guitar in the background. It's Banana Pancakes—your so-called perfect rainy day song.

He is in the kitchen making breakfast. Your eyes search for the dusty clock hanging on the off-white walls. It's 3:50 in the afternoon. Yawning, you open the fridge and take out a carton of low-fat milk and a previously opened bag of Honey Bunches of Oats with Almonds. There is bread in the toaster, bacon in the fryer, coffee in the maker. It's a perfect morning, except it isn't really.

He takes a seat right across you and glances at your bowl of cereal. You scowl at him and he grins. You try not to smile, so you end up snorting. He laughs.

Post-breakfast you wash your bowl and let him do the rest. You march back to the room and lie on the bed. Jack Johnson's been replaced by The Kooks. Sway is playing. You sing along. Five minutes later, he comes into the room, grabs the iPod to turn the volume down, and switches the TV on—Animal Planet. He plants himself beside you and the two of you watch a bunch of mating baboons as if a game of basketball were on. His eyes are fixed on the screen, yours on him. Your mind flashes forward to tonight.

Tonight you are going on a quest together to hunt wyverns for rares. The thought excites you. So does suddenly remembering that it's his turn to cook. Dinner's gonna be good for sure.

You rest your head on his shoulder and take his hand in yours. The rain's still going tip-tip-tip and your ears catch Ben Folds' The Luckiest . You close your eyes and slowly fall back into a shallow river of sleep. It's supposed to be cold but you feel snug. There is warmth all around.

Warmth all around.

Warmth all around.