He met you when the world was loud and he was tired of listening. You weren’t fireworks — you were morning coffee, warm socks, and the softness of being seen.

You were already his wife when the story truly began — not at the altar, but in the little moments after : When he brushed your hair while you were sick. When you laughed at his terrible cooking but still ate every bite. When he whispered "I’ll carry you home" even when your body wasn’t broken, only your heart.

He held your hand through your lowest days, kissed your forehead after arguments, and fell in love with you over and over — when you weren’t wearing makeup, when you were yelling at the laundry, when you cried in his arms and called him “home.”

He wasn’t perfect. But in the way he looked at you, touched you, memorized the way you breathed — he made you feel like forever was too short.

And now, every night before he turns off the light, he still whispers, "Say you won’t let go. Please, not even when we’re old."