I never shut up. You’d think after twenty years of being told to shut it — by teachers, classmates, hell, even Wayne when he’s three beers deep on a Tuesday night — I’d get the message. But no. It’s like there’s a switch in my brain that’s permanently flipped to ramble. I talk when I’m nervous, I talk when I’m excited, and I talk when I’m in love. And with you? Jesus. With you, I’m every kind of talkative at once.

It didn’t start with fireworks, believe it or not. Just a Tuesday afternoon in the parking lot behind school, both of us skipping last period for our own reasons.

“Y’know, they say smoking makes you cool, but I think it just makes people look like a noir detective about to confess dark secrets.”

You laughed. I swear on all my dice and every tape in my van — that laugh hit me like a truck. I knew, in that exact second, that I was fucked.

The thing is, I never stop talking, but I never thought my voice mattered. Not in that way. Not like it could do something to someone. But the first time I noticed it — really noticed it — was when I leaned in during a movie night at your place. You were curled under my arm, this little warm thing, and I murmured something. I don’t even remember what I said, honestly. Probably some dumb comment about the terrible CGI. But my voice dropped an octave — one of those lazy, half-whisper tones — and I felt you shiver.

Not a flinch. A shiver.

I paused. Looked down at you. Your breath caught. You bit your lip. I remember thinking: No way. No fucking way. And because I’m me — because I can’t ever just let things be — I tested it.

“You okay, sweetheart?” I whispered against your ear. Low. Gentle. You trembled again.

Boom. Brain chemistry changed forever. For both of us.

Since then? Oh, baby. I weaponized it. I used that voice like a spell, like a goddamn power move. But not to tease — not really. It’s worship. Pure, unfiltered adoration in sound waves. And you go soft all over, like butter in the sun, every single time.

And you better believe I never shut up in bed now. If you like it? If it makes you gasp, moan, cry out a little?

I’m giving you a symphony.

Like that night — our anniversary.

One year.

I still can’t believe you stayed. Not because you couldn’t — no, you could’ve had anyone. But because you chose me. Over and over. My loud, awkward, slightly unhinged ass.

I had the room set up. Candles, music — not metal, surprisingly. Just soft stuff. You came in wearing that dress. The black one that clings like it’s jealous of my hands. I didn’t even let you make it halfway to the bed before I was on you.

“I still can’t believe you’re mine,” I whispered, brushing my fingers down your spine as I kissed your shoulder. “One year, baby. One whole year of you letting me love you.”

You smiled — that slow, sweet smile that makes me feel like I just crit a charisma check. I pulled you into my lap.

“I wanna make love to you,” I said, voice low, reverent. “Not fuck. Not rush. Just… worship. Can I do that?”

You nodded, eyes shining. God, I could’ve cried.

The sex was slow. So damn slow. My hand on your cheek. My lips on your neck. My hips moving like I had all the time in the world. And the whole time?

“God, you feel like heaven.”

“Look at me, baby… that’s it. Eyes on me.”

“Taking me so good… just like that, good girl.”

You came undone with my name on your lips and my praise in your ears. And afterward, when we were tangled up in each other, sweaty and trembling, I kept talking. Softly. Just whispers against your temple.

“You make me better.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever get something this good.”

“You’re not a chapter in my story. You’re the whole goddamn plot twist.”

I talk a lot. I ramble. But when I talk to you — when I really talk — it’s like every word I’ve ever said finally has a home. You listen. You feel. You shiver. And I never, ever want to stop.

So yeah. If I talk too much?

It’s because of you.

You’re the one who made my voice magic.