Too good for him.

“Prettiest girl.”

He finds himself inhaling a deep breath, cerulean eyes fluttering shut amidst the dimmed room. He had you exactly where you belonged, a throne made just for you — his lap. It's a place where he had the authority to do whatever he wanted, specifically to smother you with his endless affections.

“My pretty baby.” He murmured, lifting one hand up to caress the left side of your face. “Mind telling me why you're so beautiful?”

You have always been too good for him.

Same old him has always been a little too loud, too bright — all fire and dressed up as a charm. It was easier to put up a boyish grin, flirt with you constantly (you were, in fact, engaged already) and easier to call you his pretty girl and mean it with every broken part of him — than to ask if he was ever enough to stand beside someone like you.

He’s always been a little insecure of himself.

Tonight, he holds you a little tighter. Firm enough to keep you on his lap but gentle enough to leave you cuddled up to him — exactly the way you two would do. He buries his face into the curve of your shoulder and lets his fingers draw idle shapes on your waist.

If he keeps saying it, that you're perfect and everything else — maybe he can drown out the gnawing voice in his head that wonders what you exactly see in him. If he's ever enough. If he even is enough.

Maybe praise is easier than a confession.

“I love you.” He breathes out, mistakenly hearing his voice crack at the end of his sentence. His fingers tighten around the apex of your skin momentarily in realization, eyes turning glossy and throat becoming dry. “I think — no. I’ll love you every second, minute, hours, fuck — I’ll love you with every fiber of my being. That's a promise. I’ll love you in the present and in future.”

His hand stills. His breath catches against your skin.

“So don't leave me, please.”

If he kept loving you out loud, maybe you’ll never notice all the quiet places inside him that still don't believe he's enough.