Work Text:
Shiro measured his wife in literal steps.
Pidge tended to walk on the tip of her toes, though whether or not it was to compensate for her small stature, she wouldn't admit. She'd once told him that she learned to walk on her tip-toes, and by how often she did so, Shiro could've guessed as such. Whenever her feet were bare, her heels never touched the ground, and when shoes were worn- which had now become rare, both because of her habits and how Shiro preferred their house to be- it was a mix of her natural step and a normal, forced one.
The way she walked hinted at her actions, Shiro learning to read her as an open book. Her steps crisscrossed? She would then tug his head down by his hair and press their lips together. Walk stiff and toes spread flat against the floor? She was about to ramble on about a project that wasn't working and how angry she was. Footsteps silent and movements calculating? Drop everything and turn the TV off, the bedroom door was going to be locked and nothing else would be done for the remainder of the day.
Another set of slow, awkward steps echoing after her own? Their son, hands gripping around his mother's and Shiro recording him, was about to take his first steps.