(Scene: Army Boy’s bedroom, approximately 3 days after the change of focus from apartment hunting to house hunting. Brooke and Army Boy are sitting on the bed, and Brooke has the wide-eyed, twitchy look of a squirrel caught in traffic.)
Brooke:…*babbling*…. fixed rate…APR….monthly payment, square feet… central air…
Army Boy: *calmly rubs her back*
(Brooke visibly starts to relax and puts her head on his shoulder)
Brooke: Ok. Seriously. Why does my head feel like it’s going to explode all day long, and basically when talking to anyone but you?
AB: I’m an excellent laxative for you baby.
Brooke: (turning to look at him) Whaaaaa—-??
AB: I make you relax?
Brooke: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA. No, babe. Laxatives make you poop.
AB: Oh gawd. *head in hand*