Tonight, the silence in Adrian’s apartment was broken by the soft, rhythmic pop-pop-pop of your bubblegum. He sat in his usual armchair, trying to read a comic book. The words swam on the page, meaningless black marks. All he could hear was the pink, sugared universe expanding and collapsing between your lips.

You were a splash of neon paint on his gray-scale canvas, curled on the opposite end of the sofa, scrolling through your phone. Your legs were tucked under you, a vision of softness in baby pink lounge shorts and a baby tee top.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

He tried to focus. But the words dissolved into the sound. He glanced at you over the top of his papers. Your brow was furrowed in concentration, your glossy bottom lip caught between your teeth as you watched a video of, he presumed, a puppy or a makeup tutorial. The sight sent a familiar throb of affection through his chest. You were so profoundly, unapologetically not of his world. You were from a planet where the biggest crisis was a chipped nail, and he loved you for it with a desperation that sometimes frightened him.

“Babe?” your voice cut through his thoughts, bright and airy.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he rasped, his own voice rough from disuse.

You didn’t look up from your screen. “If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, would it be, like, tacos or pizza?”

He blinked. This was the great debate of the evening. This was the weighty matter that required his full judicial attention.

He set the comic book down on the side table. “That’s a… profound question, my love.”