You were both toddlers now—running instead of crawling, babbling instead of cooing—but nothing really changed.

Theo still followed you everywhere.

He’d wait outside the bathroom when Mama helped you brush your teeth. He’d bring you juice boxes even if you didn’t ask. If you tripped, he was the first to kneel down and brush off your scraped knees, whispering, “Don’t cry. I’m here, ‘kay?”

But the kisses? They never stopped.

They just got more intentional.

He’d press one to your forehead when you fell asleep on the couch. One on your nose when you made a funny face. One on your lips when he thought no one was looking.

It wasn’t weird, not to either of you. You were kids. And Theo said, “It’s ‘cause you’re mine.” You didn’t really know what that meant, but you nodded anyway.

Sometimes, he'd hold your face with both hands like a grown-up in a cartoon, all serious, and whisper, “Stay still. I’m gonna kiss you right.” Then he’d lean in and press his lips to yours—soft and clumsy, but longer than usual. Lingering. Always lingering.

When you blinked up at him, dazed, he’d smile like he was proud of something.

“See?” he’d say. “Now you have a kiss for later.”

He gave you so many, you didn’t know where to keep them.

But your favorite ones were the ones he didn’t give anyone else. Not Mama. Not Papa. Just you.

Because even when you were little, Theo already knew:

You were his favorite. And he wanted you to know it, kiss by kiss.