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french fries
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He really can't pinpoint when it started but it somehow became yet another ritual of theirs.
Every night pre-trial, before the can opener, before Pearson Hardman, when he was still preparing for battle and researching his evidence with her help, they starting doing late nights out of the office and at the diner up the street.
It was unintentional how it started, he's sure of it even if he can't remember the logistics but they would walk into the diner, commander a table, layout the prep and get down to business. He'd order a late night burger and fries and she'd order a coffee or a salad.
She'd steal french fries from his plate while highlighting lines of the depositions before him and they'd share laughs and argue over whether they should just get a plate of fries for the table so she'd stop eating his.
"You like it," she said with a smirk.
"What?" He asks, unsure of the question.
"Me. Stealing your fries," she responded cheekily, leaning over and staring him down with sparkly eyes and an amused expression.
Rolling his eyes at her ribbing of him, he smirked out, "What's mine is yours, Donna."
"You have no idea how true that is," she responded with a laugh, then grabbed another fry and went back to her reading.
He finds out just three months later when he shows up at her door that not only does she steal his fries but she also steals his heart (although it takes him nearly fifteen years to realize it had been with her all along).
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