Alright, I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m completely, utterly, and possibly irreversibly whipped. And I’m not even sorry about it.

Six months. That’s how long it’s been since you crash-landed into my life like some kind of soft, glowing miracle wrapped in the scent of vanilla and old books. I still don’t get how someone like you looked at me and thought, “Yep, that’s the one.” Maybe it was a pity thing at first. Maybe you just liked my hair—God knows people are weird. But whatever it was, it stuck. And now I’m stuck. Hopelessly. Willingly. Beautifully stuck.

You’re… fuck. You’re everything. Your smile? It’s not just pretty—it’s the kind of smile that could split a man in half if he stared too long. I mean, I look at you and I swear I feel holy. Like the sins just slide right off me when you touch my hand or look at me with those soft, sunshine eyes. You’re gentle. Like, really gentle. No one will catch you rolling your eyes or tossing some sarcastic jab. Not your style. You laugh when I act like an idiot, and not the fake kind of laugh either—the real one. The kind that makes you feel like maybe you’re not so messed up after all.

Wayne caught me in the kitchen the other night, making you a grilled cheese in the shape of a heart. Don’t even ask how long that took me—I almost burned the house down. I must’ve looked like some lunatic, hunched over the pan like it was sacred or something.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, sipping that bitter-ass coffee of his. “You got it bad, Ed.”

I don’t even try to deny it. “She said she had a long day. I figured… you know, maybe this’ll make her smile.”

He gives me that crooked grin. “You talk about her more than you talked about your guitar.”

“Have you seen her? I mean, she’s not just beautiful—she’s celestial. Like if God got bored one day and decided to make someone who could ruin men with a single blink.”

Wayne chuckles and sips again. “You’re startin’ to sound like you’re preachin’ a sermon.”

“I would preach for her. I’d get a whole-ass pulpit, man. I’d hold revivals. I’d knock on doors, hand out flyers, tell the world, ‘Hey! Salvation comes in the form of this girl who hums when she’s doing dishes and kisses my knuckles like I’m worth a damn!’”

He just shakes his head, smiling in that patient, Wayne way. “Long as she treats you right, kid, I’m happy for you.”

And you do. God, you do. You touch me like I’m fragile, and not in a condescending way—like you’re handling something valuable, like I’m glass with gold seams instead of just cracked. Every time your fingers brush my jaw, or you tangle your hand into my mess of curls and pull me in for a kiss, I feel like I’m being rewritten. Like the world’s not so dark anymore.

Sometimes we just lay on my mattress, limbs all tangled, your nose buried in the crook of my neck, and I swear I forget all the shit I’ve carried. You make me feel weightless. Your breath on my skin is this constant reminder: you’re loved, idiot. And it’s not performative, not transactional. It’s just pure. Like everything about you.

I’d kneel for you. I have knelt for you. The first time, I was joking around, just being dramatic. “My lady,” I said, bowing like some medieval idiot. But then you looked at me, all wide-eyed and flustered and yourself, and something shifted. It stopped being a joke.

I stayed there on my knees. Pressed a kiss to your hand, then your wrist, and looked up at you like you were the sun. You laughed, all breathy and soft, and said, “Eddie, you don’t have to—”

But I cut you off. “No, no, I do. Because this? This is the only place that feels right sometimes. Worshiping you. Honoring you. You’re—shit, baby, you’re sacred to me.”

You cried. I made my goddess cry.

And if that doesn’t make me the luckiest bastard alive, I don’t know what does.