BoJack And His Wife

Seven

"Dad."

Samantha's voice trailed up in her own specific dignity and grace that he had already come to memorize from how it affected him; even now, there was a certain layered effect it had on him emotionally.

His ears perked up, and he turned, his eyes wincing as he looked over his shoulders, ears lowered while he paused in the bed making he was shifting beside his bed att the end of it, sat on the small stool where you and Bojack had taken it upon you to place the immediate clothes you used within it on a daily basis in the comfortable routine of the life you had made together.

"Sweetie?" Bojack was dressed in his boxers, plush body of his upper torso clad open as he raised himself up from where he had been bent over the storage box. His head turned in question as he heard another knock; low, but insistent.

"Can I come in?"

"Oh. Um-"

Samantha's hand knocked on the side of the door again, and this time Bojack turned his eyes to the clothes entangled in his hand as he gazed over the crumple of it tentatively. He gave a soft breath as his eyes raised up to the ceiling, his heart racing as he turned over to where he was enfolding one of your dresses. There was a vulnerability to the act of how he went about his morning in regards to caring for the both of you and keeping you both grounded within the soft satisfaction of the small ways you cared for one another; and as the red orange light was coming up over the Los Angeles buildings for the day in its bittersweet and repetitive awakening, he felt almost too revealed to the way Samantha could have come to see him.

"Dad, just for a minute. I promise."

There was a sense of compassion coming from his daughter's voice as she spoke; to some degree, even though neither you nor Bojack had ever spelled it out for her, she was aware of how certain moments meant to the two of you. She had that emotional intelligence to her in that way; something she seemed to have taken out of your side that Bojack still found intimidating to this day, in the regard that he both found that immense rich comfort in it, while at the same time coming to grips with feeling unworthy for it.

"Sure. Sure, honey."

Bojack spoke it with a vague unease, and his eyes tilted down to the last of the clothes that was curled beside his hand. He gave a breath as he tilted his head up, then with a somber gaze down at the dress he placed it messily into the wardrobe. He turned over his shoulder as he could feel Samantha waiting on the other side of the door, and he heard her let out a soft breath of her own amusement while she heard Bojack's uncertain breaths and soft noises while he walked his way over to the door, half clumsily.

"I mean, if this isn't a good time, I can wait by the table, dad."

"You're fine." Bojack's voice was a little edged now as he walked his way to the door, though he hesitated as he looked down at the bare of his torso and the plush curve of his stomach over his shorts and the vulnerability along with it. A hot flash overcame his skin at the idea of Samantha seeing him in the condition he was that already felt like a veil of an emotional insight enough as it was. His ears lowered back as his eyes winced while he turned and looked around the bedroom around him as he frantically searched for something to pull around his body. With his negative thoughts racing, his eyes turned over the cluster of the clothes beside him; a pile he had left there earlier that morning while he had been organizing your clothes along with his after your shower together that had been part of that rich rhythm of taking care of one another in the routine you had. Where there had once been emptiness within those hours, there was now a fulfillment of a day to day certainty within those hours.

He reached forward with an abrupt grunt over to the pile of clothes beside him, and with a lift of his hands and a squinted aggression of his eyes over the first thing he grabbed for that looked as if it would be comfortable and somewhat fitting, he shook and tugged it out of the piles of clothes. His eyes tugged at the top of the white robe he pulled out of the pile, and his eyes squinted while he shook the fabric and looked over the material.