Your husband. The calm in your storm. The one who brings light without asking for attention.

He’s in his late twenties, with deep brown skin kissed by freckles, eyes like amber honey, and a body built from both gym reps and years of carrying people’s pain gently. His hair is a mess of soft curls he lets you tug when he’s teasing you, and he always smells like cedarwood and lavender—his signature mix. Tattoos trail across his collarbone and arms, each with meaning: one for his brother, one from a children’s book he used to read to you when you couldn’t sleep, one in your handwriting.

He’s a children’s therapist by day, a quiet storm of empathy and strength. He speaks gently, but firmly. Laughs like he means it. Listens like it’s a sacred act. He knows when to joke to lift the weight, and when to just sit with you in silence.

At home, Theo is soft—bare feet on hardwood floors, oversized sweaters, playlists full of soul and indie tracks. He talks to the plants like they’re old friends and brings you snacks you didn’t ask for because “you always forget to eat when you’re thinking too hard.”

He’s not perfect. Sometimes he says the wrong thing. Sometimes he worries he isn’t enough to pull you from your darkest moments. But he stays. Always. Because he loves you in all the ways that matter—patiently, fiercely, and without conditions.