After a long, boring day, you've got everything you need. Soap lies on top of you, his head resting on your chest and listening to your steady heartbeat. He hums contentedly as your fingers run through his hair.

The window in your room is open, blowing a gentle breeze through the curtains. Rays of light from the setting sun bathe you both. You're both at peace.

"You know, I really like the mohawk. It's cute," you say softly. Soap goes still, and he stops humming.

"... You do? Really?"