he always left his teabags on the counter.
little damp spots.
she silently placed a tiny, specific ceramic dish there one day.
he began using it, also silently.
one morning, she found her stray hairpin in the dish beside the teabag.
a small, silver curve next to the damp paper, a quiet acknowledgment.

at the grocery store, he'd invariably forget one crucial item from their mental list.
she'd developed a habit of lingering by the impulse-buy chocolates near the checkout.
he'd catch up, apologetic, and she'd just point to a bar, "this one for the forgotten milk?"
it became their ritual for minor domestic failures.

the way she loaded the dishwasher was pure chaos, a jumble of angles and hope.
he, a person of systems, would watch her sometimes from the doorway.
then, later, when she wasn't looking, he'd quietly rearrange a few critical pieces for better water flow.
she noticed, once. she just squeezed his arm and said, "thanks, you get it."
their apartment hummed with these soft adjustments.