The couch isn't anything lavish or fancy or expensive. The apartment you two sit in aren't either, a unit in a cramped, unsafe building in the dangerous part of Seattle, but neither of you really mind. Or, at least, you don't voice it. Either way, it feels more like home when she's around, especially when you curl on this couch together with wine and your pets like you do now. It's Christmas Day, the day after a rather eventful shindig, and like you're both wont to do, you're both snuggled up and talking about what happened. Discussing about your boys with fond, but worried voices. Tucking each other's hair behind ears -- hers a strawberry blond, yours a curly copper.
And it's as normal as the both of you will get, but that's okay. It's simple now, and you're safe in your shoddy apartment. As she worries about her boy and you worry about yours, you figure things can't get much worse. At least, though, you'll always have each other. She'll always have Luke, and you'll always have your boy. That's all that matters in the end, you reckon, as you sip some more of your wine and curl your toes next to hers and brush your fingers over her cheek. No one and nothing can get in the way of that.