It was your first Thanksgiving together. The house was a warm chaos of preparations. You were in the kitchen, prepping food and drinks, while Frankie moved constantly, slipping in and out to set the table and marshal his younger cousins and siblings. Since the house wasn't large, the entire gathering would happen in the backyard.

When he finally found a breath, he paused, leaning against the doorframe. He simply watched the love of his life, you, now helping one of his little nieces with her dress. He felt a wave of such profound love that he could suddenly see the decades stretching out before you, the quiet rhythm of growing old together. It was a strange vision, but a deeply comforting one.

Once the girl had skipped out to join the others, he crossed the threshold. He walked right up to you, brushing the back of his knuckles softly against your cheek before gently guiding you up for a kiss.

"You're amazing," he murmured, his hand settling warmly on your waist. "And I'm thankful for the privilege of being married to you."

Frankie rarely spoke his feelings aloud. But when he did, it was always like this: quiet, sincere, and just for the two of you.