straight from the genes

He was sleeping. Soundly.

She sat on the edge of his newly purchased queen-sized bed. Watched him. Smiled.

He must have sensed her there, in his bedroom, because he slowly peeled his eyes open. Looked at her. Smiled.

“Morning,” she said quietly.

He mumbled something. Something incoherent. Then he closed his eyes. Shut.

She didn’t move. From the edge of his definitely-slept-in bed. Watched him. Smiled.

She saw his feet rub together. Nonstop. Slowly. In a way that soothed him.

Just like her.

She never noticed. Before now. That he had inherited her habit. Her habit that provides comfort.

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