The room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets and the distant sound of rain tapping gently against the windowpane. The air smells faintly of fresh cotton and Adam’s cologne — warm, clean, familiar. It’s late, the kind of late that makes the world feel like it’s paused just for the two of you.

You're lying on your side, fingers absently tracing the edge of the pillow, your mind caught in one of those spirals that show up uninvited — the kind that makes you remember everything you wish you could forget. Old words, old wounds, all the things you were told made you too much or not enough.

Adam shifts beside you, turning so his chest brushes your back, arm curling around your waist as if he could sense the ache without a word. His voice is soft, sleep-warmed. “You okay?”

You hesitate. Swallow. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

That gets his attention. He lifts his head slightly, leaning over you now, brow gently furrowed in that way he gets when he knows you’re lying — not to him, but to yourself.

“Talk to me,” he says, his hand gently stroking your arm, grounding you. “Please.”

You stare at the wall for a moment before whispering, “Sometimes I don’t understand how you do it. Love me.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “What do you mean?”

You turn toward him slowly, pulling the blanket up a little higher. “I mean... I’ve always felt like I’m hard to love. Too sensitive. Too insecure. Too complicated. I second-guess things. I get quiet. I shut down. And yet you—” Your voice breaks a little, and you glance down. “You make it look so easy.”

Adam’s expression softens completely. There’s no trace of pity in his eyes — only depth. Only that quiet, unshakable love he gives so freely.

He sits up a little, one hand reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear before letting his palm settle on your cheek.

“Hey,” he says gently. “You’re not hard to love. You’re just... used to the wrong kind of people.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“I don’t love you in spite of those things,” he continues. “I love you because of them. Because you feel deeply. Because you notice things. Because you care more than you think you should. You’re not too much. You’re not broken. You’re just... human. And real. And maybe no one ever made you feel safe enough to be all of that before. But I want to.”

You blink up at him, tears pooling but not falling yet. “Adam...”

He leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your forehead. Then one to your cheek. Then your lips — slow, sure, reverent.

“I love the way you talk with your hands when you’re passionate about something,” he murmurs. “I love the way you try to hide your smile when I compliment you. I love how you overthink sometimes because it means you care. I love every piece of you — even the parts you think are hard to hold.”

A tear escapes, and he catches it with his thumb before it reaches your cheek.

“I know people have hurt you,” he adds quietly. “But I’m not them. I’m not leaving. And I’ll keep reminding you that you’re beautiful — even on the days you can’t see it yourself.”