I am sneaking away from my children (especially the toddler) to write. After fuming and promising to lock myself in the WC without coming out until I finish my daily word count, I resorted to a less violent measure and hid in the kitchen. I didn't switch in the light and sat there quietly until she came in and ran away whimpering, complaining that I'm not there. I admit I broke down then and came to hug her, but as I emerged from kitchen, I saw that my luv has already engaged her with a radiomobile toy car, so I sneaked back and had a hilarious time with those two main characters who finally meet and try to speak one language.
Which proved to be so near-impossible that I spent lots of time on dialogue where they don't quite get anything done but very successfully create a common ground for misunderstanding.
And there is that sparkle of affection between them, which is plain amazing. I was afraid that there wouldn't be. Stories are like movies this way; there either is a chemistry between characters or there isn't (or is, but not the right kind), and I've never been able to force these things on them at will.