The main light is off in the kitchen, and the living room is dimly lit by the single lamp on the end table. Jack, seated on the floor with his back to the couch, doesn’t hear my soft-footed approach. I stand at the mouth of the hallway, watching. He’s bent over the washing basket I’d pushed to the side to deal with later, carefully folding the clean clothes and putting them in piles on the coffee table. He’s got an orderly row of shirts, boxers, and a pile of socks that he’s paired and rolled together. For some reason, watching the careful way he folds a pair of underwear makes me want to cry.
Ughhhh hes so freaking cute
