
The Master smiles wryly at the air in front of him, as his wife pretzels around his form and declares her affections (he feels them, daily, by the moment, pulsing between their minds, eternal as time itself).
Fingers twine with hers, and lift both her hands to his lips, to kiss the pulse points of her wrists.
“How could you not imagine ME to be lovable?” he teases, then spins in her arms and catches her face roughly, passionately close. “Hi. You’re the whole point of my existence. That alright with you?”
And he kisses her.

