His hair lies like a silken waterfall on his pillow. One of the things I've asked him to do-now that the Air Force no longer owns both our asses-was to let his hair grow back out. He grumbled and bitched and threatened but it now swings to his shoulders, shiny and sleek when he blows it dry, springy and curly apres-shower.

I kneel and stroke the length, watch it tumble through my fingers. "Baby." I whisper softly.

His body stiffens. Oops, I thought he was still asleep. "Baby? You called me Baby?"

"Uh..um..I might have." My hand is still buried in his hair.

"You called me Baby?" He jerks up, his hair flying around his face in anger, his voice spiraling upward. "I'm not a beagle, you know."

I am saved from answering by the sound of four eager paws skttering across the bedroom floor, launching themselves onto the bed. I transfer my stroking to the dog. "Hey, Baby." I gently pull his ear through one hand before reaching over to do the same with Daniel's hair. "Hmm."

He jerks the sheet up to his chin, pulling away from my questing hand. "You're comparing my hair to the dog's ear."

"They're both soft and silky and fun to touch. So, yeah, I guess I am."

He flops down, pulls the covers over his head and mutters, "Don't call me Baby!"