When he sleeps, he's precious, like a little boy. His curls stick out everywhere, standing up straight in some places. His boxy hand is curled into a fist, his thumb stuck in his mouth. His breathing is soothingly rhythmic, and I have to struggle to resist the urge that comes over me to stroke his long, horse-y face. That would wake him from his perfect slumber.

Watching him as he's dreaming, it makes me wonder what he's dreaming about. His mother? His friends? His freedom? A girl?

Me?

He shifts, and blinks his eyes open, and I'm struck for the millionth time by how stunning his eyes can be… innocent like a baby deer, curious like a kitten.

He removes his thumb from his mouth and smiles charmingly at me.

"Heya, Skitts. What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to wake up, sleepy-head." I tease, and his cheeks take a rosy tinge. "C'mon, Snitch. We gotta go sell our evening papes."

He nods, sits up, yawns hugely like a cat, and scratches his head. I watch and smile as he does this.

We kiss briefly, then head out into the fading sunlight.

He's still precious, even when awake.