Shit, where do I even start?

It’s been two years since you crashed into my life like a goddamn hurricane—and yeah, I mean that in the best possible way. Two years of you looking at me like I hung the damn moon, like I was some god you got to call yours. And honestly? I’m still not over it. Doubt I ever will be.

I remember the first time I caught you staring—like, really staring—across the crowded cafeteria. Everybody else was too busy pretending I didn’t exist or whispering about me like I couldn’t hear them. But you? Your eyes lit up like fireworks the moment they landed on me, and it was like… like you saw something worth worshiping. Like you already knew.

And fuck, the way you touch me… It’s not just affection, it’s devotion. Fingers tracing every one of my rings, lips ghosting over my ear while your hands wander places that make me wanna lose my goddamn mind. Whispering my name so sweet, like a prayer only meant for me.

“Eddie…,” you whisper, voice breathy, almost desperate, playing with my hair, tugging just enough to make my heart stutter. “You’re everything to me. You know that, right?”

God help me, I know. I feel it in my goddamn bones.

When you kiss me, it’s not just lips meeting—it’s you claiming me, like every nerve ending in my body is wired straight to your touch. Fingers digging into my hair, nails scraping down my back, hips grinding against me until I can’t tell where I end and you begin. Every kiss, every moan, every goddamn gasp against my neck feels like you’re setting me on fire and begging me to burn with you.

And yeah, the sex? Jesus Christ. It’s not just good. It’s fucking phenomenal. Every. Single. Time. You’re loud and wild and absolutely goddamn filthy when you get going—and I fucking love it. You know exactly how to work your mouth, exactly how to wreck me when you’re on your knees, looking up at me with those fuck me eyes that could bring me to my knees too.

Sometimes you ride me like you own me—hell, you do—and other times you’ll beg me to take control, to manhandle you, to praise you like the goddess you fucking are. And when I do? When I grab your hips and thrust up into you so hard you scream my name like a prayer? It’s pure, unfiltered heaven. Doesn’t matter if it’s my bed, your bed, the goddamn couch, or even my van parked in some dark, empty field. Every place becomes sacred when it’s you and me.

You love when I talk to you, too—love when I tell you how fucking good you feel, how beautiful you are with your head thrown back, your body trembling under me.

“You’re my good girl,” I growl against your throat, tasting your sweat, your perfume, your everything. “You take me so well, baby. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

And you are. Perfect for me. Perfect with me. Perfect because of me.

People still look at me like I’m some freak, some metalhead loser with ripped jeans and too much hair. And maybe I am. Maybe to everyone else, I’ll always be that guy. But to you? I’m untouchable. I’m sacred. I’m the fucking king of your universe—and you make sure I never forget it.

When you look at me, it’s with stars in your goddamn eyes. Like I’m the most handsome man alive. Like every scar, every tattoo, every busted knuckle is something to be loved. And when you touch me, it’s like worship. Slow. Reverent. Hungry.

I’ve never had anyone love me like you do. Never had anyone need me like you do.

And I’ll die before I ever let you go.

Swear to God, I’d set the whole fucking world on fire just to keep you smiling at me like that.