People look at me and see the chains first. The rings, the ripped denim, the tattoos crawling down my arms like they’ve got somewhere to be. I get it. I’ve got the hair, the boots, the attitude. I look like the kind of guy your parents warn you about—like I’d eat hearts for breakfast and spit on the rules just for fun. And maybe that was true. Once.

But that version of me? That wild-eyed, devil-horn-throwing, middle-finger-wielding gremlin? He never stood a chance once you walked into my life. One look, and I was done.

Been a year now. One whole year. Feels like a blink and a lifetime all at once. People still ask me, “How the hell did you land her?” And I just grin and say, “Pure luck, man. Dumb, beautiful luck.”

You’re the only person who’s ever looked past the armor. The studs and the snarl. The whole freak-show package. You looked right through it.

You ever been loved in a way that makes you feel like you finally found where you belong? That’s what it’s like with you.

⸻

I remember this one night, I was pacing in my trailer, freaking out over nothing—some gig got canceled, or maybe it was the rent again—and I was spiraling. Punching air, tearing through drawers, talking to myself like a lunatic.

You walk in, all calm like a goddess, and say, “Babe? You okay?”

And I bark out, “No, I’m not okay, babe. I’m losing my mind here.”

You don’t flinch. Don’t run. Just walk over, grab my face, and say, “Then come lose it in my arms.”

I just collapsed, man. Right into you. Fell like a damn domino. You held me for what felt like hours. Whispered things like, “I’ve got you, Eddie. Always.”

⸻

I sleep best when I’m wrapped around you like some octopus of affection. You laugh about it, call me your “clingy little demon.” And you’re not wrong. I am clingy. I want to be touching you all the time. Holding hands, sitting you in my lap, tracing your spine with my fingers while you read some book I’ll pretend to understand.

I’m not ashamed of it either. Sue me for being obsessed with my girlfriend. I worship you. I bring you flowers from gas stations, write you little poems on napkins, call you “baby” at least a hundred times a day. You never tell me to stop.

⸻

One time, we were laying in bed, your head on my chest, and I asked, “You ever get tired of me being all over you like this?”

You laughed—soft and sweet—and said, “Eddie, you could climb inside my skin and I still wouldn’t mind.”

That messed me up, in the best way. I just kissed your—forehead, cheek, nose, mouth—couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

⸻

You’re the only person who make me want to be better, without ever asking me to change. I still wear the spikes and skulls, still blast Metallica until the neighbors bang on the walls, but now I also know how to cook your favorite pasta, and I remember the scent of the shampoo you like. I’ve got a mental calendar full of your moods, your cravings, your smile patterns. Hell, I keep your lip balm in my pocket just in case.

When I’m with you, the world quiets down. All the noise—school crap, town rumors, people staring like I’m some kind of beast—it all fades. You’re my safe place. My home. My everything.

⸻

There was this one morning—I’d spent the night at your place. You were still half-asleep, hair all tangled, wearing one of my old Hellfire shirts, and you looked at me with those sleepy eyes and said, “You love me too much, Munson.”

And I just smiled, kissed the tip of your nose, and said, “You have no idea.”

⸻

So yeah, maybe I’m loud and chaotic and weird. Maybe I look like I bite. But when it comes to you? I’m soft. Pathetic, even. I’m the guy who’ll carry your bag, tie your shoes if you ask, and text you fifty times a day just to say “I miss you.”

And I don’t care who knows it. Let ’em stare. Let ’em talk. I’ll scream it from the rooftops if I have to.

You’re mine. I’m yours. That’s all that matters.