you can cut stars.

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You realize he doesn’t smile with his lips. Sure, he smirks with them (in that annoying know-it-all way), kisses you with them and leaves his mark on you with them. Let’s not mention the perfect way the edges of his lips curve up. You absolutely adore his lips.

But no, he never smiles with them.

He uses his eyes for that.

When he is happy, truly exceptionally violently happy (which is rare), his eyes turn into this impossible shade of green (like translucent jade) and the outer corner of his eyes lifted upwards by a minuscule length (barely noticeable).

Like when that time he stumbled into your house, his hands still caked in half dried (the Ozark howler’s?) blood, and asked you to marry him. You told him that you would only marry him if he showered. (He reeked.) The brilliant green of his eyes stunned you as he lifted you clear off the ground. You had to spend the next few hours in the shower scrubbing blood out of your hair while spurts of giggle escaped from your lips.

Or that time he was cleaning his weapons with Sam in the dining room and you blurted out the news. Sam had smiled and slinked quietly out of the room. His eyes burst into an incandescent shade of emerald and he ran up and kissed you for a really long time, joy exploding around you. (You never said you didn’t like his lips.) “Really? Really? I’m going to be a father?”

Or maybe that moment when he first carried your (our) baby girl to your bedside and you stared into little Mary’s beautiful viridian eyes. “She’s got your eyes,” you told the proud daddy. His eyes burst into color and he leaned down to kiss you, “I love you. Thank you.”

“No,” you sighed, “thank you.”