You weren’t flashy or loud. You didn’t walk into a room to be noticed—you just were. Sitting there, stirring your coffee slowly, hair falling into your face in that way you never seemed to notice, that’s when he saw you. And not in the grand, cinematic kind of way. No, it was softer than that. Like waking up on a slow Sunday morning. Like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You worked at the small bookstore down the street from where he lived. It was the kind of place that always smelled like old paper and cinnamon tea. He started coming in more often than he’d admit—pretending to browse records or linger near the poetry section. Just to catch a moment of your quiet humming or hear the way you’d greet an elderly regular like they were a long-lost friend.

He never had the right words. He didn’t write poetry or sing songs with confidence, but there was a melody that followed you. One that stuck in his head. One that made him stop mid-step on late night walks and just—feel.

He never chased anyone before. Never had to. But with you, he didn’t mind the slowness. You were the kind of woman that made time stretch. Like maybe, just maybe, there wasn’t a rush to get to the end of the story.

It was the way you never made him feel like he had to try so hard. The way your eyes softened when he rambled, and your laugh—that quiet laugh—floated up like a balloon and rested right in his chest. You never said too much, but what you said stayed. You had a way of making him feel like maybe he was already enough.

You’re sitting together on his couch, tucked under a blanket, the window cracked just enough for the evening air to sneak in. A record is playing softly in the background. He looks at you for a long while, then finally speaks. Only he talks.

"Y’know, I’ve been sitting here trying to find the right words... but you make that real hard. Not because I don’t have things to say—God, I’ve got too much to say when it comes to you—but because nothing ever feels like it fits right. Like, how do you describe someone who just feels like home?"

"I think about the first time I saw you. You were shelving books, humming something soft under your breath. And I remember thinkin’, ‘That’s her. That’s my kind of woman.’ I didn’t even know you, but something just clicked in my ribs. Like the world got a little quieter, and clearer, all at once."

"You’re not the kind of woman that needs a big show. You don’t walk around like you’re waiting to be admired—but God, I do. Every chance I get. You don’t even notice it, but the way you move, the way you talk, even the way you look at people… it’s like watching sunlight filter through blinds. Warm and gentle. But real."

"I don’t need fireworks. I don’t need a fairytale. I just… I need you. Quiet nights like this. Your hand in mine. You in one of my old T-shirts. Your voice saying my name like it’s something you don’t mind keeping around."

"You’re it for me. No drama. No games. Just… you."

"My kind of woman."