Raphael expected nothing out of Cherokee. As depressing as this sounded, he learned the hard way how to deal with Cherokee's constant need to move and do and act and just be. She had a method to her madness, if you could call how she handled her habits and quirks a "method".

Every morning, Cherokee awoke exactly at 7:13 on the dot.

"Why 7:13 anyway?" Raphael asked casually one afternoon, curiosity flickering across his face like the way a diamond flickered light when the sun hit it directly.

"Seven's my lucky number, and thirteen's considered unlucky so I want to balance out the ratio of lucky to unlucky in an interesting way." Cherokee didn't explain herself further. Raphael didn't need more of an explanation, because somehow, it made one hundred percent sense.

After rolling out of bed in the morning, Cherokee would always decide to make her favorite breakfast of an egg white omelet with fresh mushrooms grown from the garden, the crunchiest and sweetest of red bell peppers diced and sliced in a chaotic way that somehow made sense, feta cheese grated inside of the mess of food and, to top this omelet off, she added spinach. If she were feeling daring, she would add fresh bacon bits or avocado or tomatoes and onions with lemon.

Raphael, ever tempted to steal her delicious omelet, decided against it. The only thing she was strict about was her food. It was a precious commodity to her, more valuable than the most valuable of priceless gems or paintings in the world.

She never got dressed to eat because breakfast seemed to determine her mood. If she woke up with a spring in her step, a twinkle in her eyes and with energy to spare (which seemed to happen more often than not, Raphael noticed), she'd dress up in a long, flowing, purple, bronze, magenta tie-dye skirt with a plain navy blue tank top covered in a glittery galaxy pattern. Her black, two-inch tall heels and her impeccably styled hair added the last touch of flair to her outfit. Cherokee dressed up as if she had somewhere absolutely fancy to go. Raphael loved these moods because she seemed to radiate a spiral of love and light, contagious to each and every person around her.

Including him.

"May I have this dance, Miss Cherokee?" Raphael said, extending his large hands to hers. His eyes shone bright like a calm fire that wouldn't ever be extinguished.

"Of course I would, Mister Raphael," she extended her petite hands to match his. She looked up to meet his eyes, and the spark that made them fall in love lit up again. Raphael brought Cherokee close to his chest, not caring that they were in the middle of a complicated tango. He could feel her heart fluttering against his chest, a comforting feeling that he adored. Raphael, with his ripped jeans and worn band shirt and his ratty converse, looked mismatched against Cherokee's general put together and polished outfit. They were two parts of a whole, and that made him the happiest boy on earth.

They never planned moments like this, where Raphael asked Cherokee to dance, but these were the moments he lived for.