Donna loves John loves Donna. It's been that way since they were thirteen, since a pretty little blonde girl sat down next to a brown haired boy and told him he had peanut butter on his nose. They laugh at the same jokes, they love all the same music, he likes the way her hair smells when it's still damp and she loves how he's her secret genius, even if she hates the way he hides his 'big damn brain'.
They get each other. He doesn't have to tell her that he loves her every five minutes, because she can look at him across a room full of people and just know from the way his eyes light up when she smiles at him. And yeah, she still remembers all those times he had to climb out her bedroom window, half-dressed, 'cause Daddy was home and they were gonna get caught and in a whole bunch of trouble. She remembers their first kiss and the first time they ever had sex -- he got so damn paranoid she was going to get pregnant, he read baby books for weeks, and she named all the kids they haven't had yet. (She got to six before she stopped writing them down)
His accent, a sexy sort of drawl, makes her knees turn to jello every time she hears it, but a few words in hers and he's a pile of loved-up goo at her feet.
And it's all these things, all these beautiful, wonderful things that mean even though he's not there, even though he shipped out a week ago and she misses him so bad, that mean she's gonna be patient. She's going to be here when he gets back, and she's going to sleep on his side of the bed until he does. She's going to love him just as hard as she can, and one day, they're going to get married and have babies and be that perfect, destined couple everybody's always said.