It was the little things. Like the way she would go quiet when watching a film because she was trying to hold her tears in, yet they silently fell down her cheek anyway. It was the way she would pick up a piece of popcorn and nearly miss her mouth because she was so engrossed in the scenes in front of her. The journey from the bowl to her mouth was agonizingly slow, stilling for a long moment just before she swiftly placed it on her tongue, and even more slow as she was trying to time her crunches between dialogue. Her eyes would widen when there was an action sequence, and he felt his own eyes mimic the action while watching her. It was how, by the end of it, she always found that same spot on his shoulder and he would ruin the moment, accidentally jerking her awake because he still wasn't used to the contact.
Sometimes, she would put her hand on his heart, always looking up at him for a split second with fear when the next beat didn't arrive as quickly as she anticipated, then letting out a sigh when it finally thrummed against her palm. She would take his own hand and run her finger along one of his, somehow measuring the length of it. Oftentimes he was ordered - asked nicely - to say something, anything, so she could hear his accent. It was how she threaded her fingers through his hair and continued the path behind his ear, like she was mapping all of the ways he was different from him. He convinced himself he wasn't just a replacement, that she had her own way of grieving and healing with him, not using him. Together, as they mended each other.
It was the way she said his name that he knew he wasn't being compared.