The kitchen is too small for two people who hate agreeing on anything. You’re standing way too close to him—arguing, again—about something ridiculous.

“Obviously you squeeze toothpaste from the bottom,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

He scoffs. “Only criminals do that. Top. Always top.”

Neither of you move. Which is a problem, considering his shoulder is almost brushing yours, and the height difference makes your entire argument look like a personal attack on gravity. You're too short than him. Or he's too tall? That's what's you're hoping for. His face is a few inches away from yours. Barly.

From the doorway, a tiny voice finally cuts in—completely unbothered:

“Can you guys stop flerting while yous arguin??” Your tiny daughter says.