trinkets.
He finds her at the diner, the box no bigger than a stack of cards heavy in his hand - his thumb dragging back and forth over the worn wooden lid (it is smooth from age and contemplation and he swallows hard, seeking comfort in the familiar gesture). He can hear the trinket inside rattle with every careful step forward and he's suddenly very glad he stashed it inside his coat when he jumped through a portal with a bean in his hand and hope in his heart because there are not many things left that he treasures (blonde hair and green eyes and a smile like the sun), but this - he wants to show her this.
She looks up when he sits down, eyebrows rising high on her forehead and pancakes shoved haphazardly in her mouth. A gentle smile curves her lips as she mumbles out a hello and there is nothing more precious to him than these small, simple moments - when she looks at him soft and gentle and warm and there is syrup sticking to her bottom lip and sunlight caressing her skin. He feels his lips lift in response and places the wooden box in the empty space between them with purpose, sliding it forward with his hook and minimal scratching behind his ear.
(He wants to show her but his stomach is in knots and he's not quite sure how to begin but her eyes dart from the box to his and he knows she understands, can see the understanding dawning in the flush across her skin.)
"I thought - " He scratches again, ducks his head down a bit and focuses on the simple 'L' carved on top of the box. He clears his throat and tries once more, finding strength in the way her fingers curl around the leather of his cuff, fork and pancakes forgotten. "I thought I should show you a bit of my past as well."
She blinks at him silently and then reaches for the box, thumbing at it gently and staring at the medal inside. She picks it up carefully, reverently, and while he thought he couldn't love her more he was clearly lying to himself because his stomach twists and his heart pounds when he sees her smiling at his Naval pin with gentle affection, dimples flashing in her cheeks and eyes shining as her thumb carefully traces the emblem.
"It's not much, but it's what I - "
She cuts him off with her lips on his, one hand still cradling his pin, the other pressed against his chest - over the steady (madly) thrumming of his heart.
"Thank you." She whispers, and he settles, another bit of him finding it's place in the way her hair brushes over his forearm.
(She tastes like sweetness and coffee and home and by gods he is a lucky man.)