Every morning Vi sits before a mirror (or a shard of glass, or a pool of water, she couldn't get picky in Stillwater) and draws on her face the roman numerals VI.

But she doesn't have to do it herself anymore, because she has you.

Of course, she insisted on doing it herself the first time you offered, but by the second time, she caved. In a last-ditch effort to keep her pride, she insisted on a compromise.

"Careful. You'll poke my eye out." Her hands rest on your hips, and she smirks as if she didn't purposefully move to see you get frustrated.