10 and 13. When you first met the boy you swore you couldn’t stand.
You were ten, gangly and stubborn, and he was thirteen, loud and cocky with a grin that made you roll your eyes every time.
"You're in my seat," you snapped the first time he sat beside you at your cousin’s birthday.
He looked you up and down with that maddening smirk. "Is there a name on it?"
You crossed your arms. "Yeah. It says ‘annoying boys not allowed.’”
He just laughed. “Good thing I’m more charming than annoying.”
You didn’t agree—not out loud anyway.
13 and 16. When you stole your first kiss from him. At a party hosted by your parents.
The music was loud, the night buzzing with energy. He stood across the backyard, leaning casually against the deck railing, older now, less annoying somehow.
You were thirteen, feeling bolder than usual, with your heart thudding against your ribs. He caught your eyes and smiled, not the smirk of years ago—but something softer.
“Wanna sneak away for a second?” you asked, tugging his sleeve.
He followed you to the side of the house, moonlight catching in his eyes.
“You’ve grown up,” he said.
You shrugged. “So have you.” Then, without warning, you stood on your toes and kissed him. Quick, breathless.
He blinked. Then grinned. “That was... unexpected.”
“You didn’t hate it.”
“No,” he said, leaning closer, “I didn’t.”
17 and 20. When those touches seemed to linger.
A brush of fingers across your hand lasted just a second too long. His hand on the small of your back made your spine tingle. One night, you sat on the hood of his car under the stars.
“I still think about that first kiss,” he admitted, voice low.
“So do I,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your cheek. “This feels real, doesn’t it?”
You nodded. “It’s always felt real with you.”
19 and 22. When things became official.
He picked you up for dinner. No casual hangout. No group of friends. Just the two of you.
He held your hand across the table, nervous for the first time in years.
“I want this to be something,” he said. “Something with a name.”
You smiled. “Like... boyfriend?”
He grinned. “Like everything.”
You laughed. “Then yeah. Let’s make it official.”
He kissed you then, right there, in the middle of the restaurant.
23 and 26. When two became one. A day you both treasured so dearly.
The aisle felt too long and too short at the same time. You saw him waiting, eyes glassy, smile wide.
“I can’t believe we made it here,” you said as he took your hands.
“I never had a doubt,” he whispered.
The vows came easy. The tears were real. And when he kissed you as his spouse, the whole world seemed to blur into a single, perfect heartbeat.
25 and 28. When a little one was born of love.
He held your hand in the hospital room, whispering soft words as you breathed through the pain.
“You’ve got this. I’m right here.”
And then, the cry. Tiny, sharp, beautiful.
You both looked down at the baby—your baby—with wide, tear-filled eyes.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered, voice cracking.
“She’s ours,” you replied.
And in that moment, your love expanded into something even greater. Something small, wrinkled, and infinitely precious.