That evening, the lights were dim, and a row of candles flickered softly across our table. You had insisted on cooking dinner, though I stayed close, sneaking bites, earning playful glares and your quiet laughter. The warmth of the kitchen, the scent of basil and garlic in the air it all felt like home because you were in it.
When we finally sat down, you looked at me with a mischievous smile and placed a small envelope on my plate. I raised an eyebrow, but you just said, "Open it after dessert."
We talked, we laughed, we danced barefoot on the tiles to a slow, barely-there melody playing in the background. And when the plates were cleared and dessert was gone, I opened the envelope. Inside was a sketch of me messy hair, quiet eyes and below it, your handwriting: This is how I see you. Always.
I didn't have words.
So I stood, took your hand, and pulled you close. We kissed again not for the first time, but as if we were falling in love all over again. And maybe, in that moment, we were.