I looked up from my desk just in time to see Chris bounce through the squad room doors, his trademark grin hitting me like a thunder burst of rain after a months-long drought. He was wearing the canary yellow Oxford dress shirt that I particularly like. Of course, I did buy it for him for Christmas last year. He had been so cute when he opened it, rolling his eyes and giving me his most fake, over-exaggerated smile. Now I could feel myself smiling at the memory. Three months earlier, we'd been interviewing a particularly annoying associate of David Meyers, our prime suspect in the Haverton murder. And Chris had been wearing what was, even for him, a fantastically bright yellow shirt. And the guy would not stop calling Chris "Big Bird." It was childish and grated on my nerves. But Chris's response just got to be funnier and funnier, and then his insistence that I not tell anyone so that he didn't end up getting Sesame Street gag gifts from every one in the squad room was just too much. I had to do something. I think he burned the shirt that had provoked the perp. But come December, there we were opening gifts on my couch. I still had the picture I'd snapped of him opening the box hanging on my fridge. He had grumbled. But he wore it regularly. And well. Very, very well.

"Hey Lorenzo," Sergeant Johnson called out before the doors could even finish swinging shut behind Chris. "You got a sec?"

"Always for you, my friend," Chris said lightly, pretending like he was making a 3-pointer over Johnson's head as he turned and walked to his desk. "Ooohhh, nothing but air. Hah!" It was an amicable jibe. The two had a long-standing basketball rivalry, playing at least once a week after work, twice if they could fit it in. Testosterone levels ran a bit high in all of their interactions, but things stayed friendly.

I couldn't hear most of what they were saying, but I could guess the general theme: the NCAA playoff pool Johnson organized every March. Johnson showed Chris something on his computer monitor, and then the two of them starting gesturing like they were faking each other out on the court. It seemed friendly, but I sensed a certain competitive tension between them, too. When they looked back at the screen, Chris peered more closely at it. Now I could hear Chris loud and clear. "Duke? Duke?!" He made it sound like "Duke" was the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard.

"Yeah, Lorenzo. Duke. Blue Devils all the way, baby. Their defense is unstoppable. They have the best record in the ACC. All. The. Way." Now he was jabbing his forefinger close to Chris's chest, emphasizing each word.

"It is going to be a pleasure to take your money, my friend," I heard Chris say as he was smiling even more broadly now. I watched him turn from Johnson's desk, laughing. "Duke. Hah!" I caught a glimpse of him full-on for just a second. His eyes were dancing, which made them catch the light in the squad room and sparkle like fireworks. If I had been paying attention, I would have felt butterflies in my stomach take flight in response. But if anyone asked, I definitely wasn't paying attention. Probably it was just something I ate.

I kept my eyes on him as he made his ritual morning stop at the coffee machine on his way to our desks, watched his easy manner with the other detectives as he offered hellos as he walked. I realized how much I loved this about him, his openness, his ease with these people we worked with day in and day out.

He poured himself a mug of coffee from the half-empty carafe on the table. No milk, just coffee. And one sugar. The rest of the day, he'll take his coffee unadorned, and unquestionably so. But this morning, like every morning, he's going to look exactly twice at the sweetener display. One long glance, then back to the cup. Then a second quick glance before finally settling on the sugar—not Sweet –n- Low, not Stevia, just plain white sugar. I know this like I know the sun will rise tomorrow. And yet every morning, he seems to think he's making up his mind fresh each time. Of all the endearing things he does, I think this ranks near the top for me. And yep, there it is, the quick stir, three times around, with one of the wooden stirrer sticks and a toss of the stick into the trash. Every morning. The stick disposed of, he picked up the steaming mug in his right hand, grabbed a powdered donut with his left, and had half of it in his mouth by the time he'd made the turn toward our desks and headed straight toward me.

I smiled and gave him a little wave as he caught me watching him.

And in return, I was rewarded with those dancing eyes again, and the ridiculous sight of him holding the donut to his mouth while also trying to grin. "Morning, Sammy," he mumbled as he chewed the sugary goodness.

I couldn't help it, I was laughing now.

He raised his eyebrows at me as if to ask "what?" and then popped another third of the donut in his mouth.

"Uh, Sam," I said, and I held my hand up to my face, making like I was wiping powdered sugar off my nose.

In response he tried, mostly ineffectually, to get the sugar off of his face while still eating the source of the mess. It was adorable, yes, and a well-deserved light-hearted moment in a job that could get dark. But if I were being completely honest, I would have to admit that I was torn between amusement at the goofy effort he was making at removing the sugar and admiration for the cut of his freshly shaven jaw line, and the intermittent tufts of hair on his head that had been turned lighter brown by the intense Florida sun. It gave him a bit of a sexy surfer look, if you ignored the work clothes. And then there was the curve of his lower lip as he licked powdered sugar from it. Why was that so deliciously distracting? As I watched him, I could feel myself getting lighter, my mood lifting. No surprise, of course. We're best friends and partners. But damn if he didn't make me feel good. I hadn't realized before just how much my mood shifted when he walked into the squad room every day. I was struck by the intensity of how much I didn't want to imagine ever having a morning without him in it.

"Better?" He was looking at me, clearly waiting for a response.

"Sorry?" I must have zoned out. What was he asking me?

He drew a circle in the air around his nose with his forefinger, indicating where the offending sugar had been, and cocked an eyebrow. His eyes were locked on mine in a way that made me feel like we were the only two people in the room.

"Perfect." And this feeling, this moment with him? That's exactly what it was. Perfect.