The world always seemed a little smaller when Matt Rempe walked into it. Literally. He ducked under door frames without thinking, shoulders brushing against walls, that easy grin never fading no matter how many times someone commented on his height. It was part of his charm — the way he handled being six-foot-nine with the awkward grace of a guy who didn’t quite realize how much space he took up.

It started when he tried to make breakfast. He had to bend practically in half to see into the fridge, bumping his head on the freezer door when he stood up too fast. Then, when he reached for a mug on the top shelf, his elbow caught the cabinet, sending it swinging open hard enough to rattle the dishes. He froze, eyes wide, before breaking into a sheepish laugh — the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Maybe they should make kitchens taller,” he muttered to himself, grinning as he set the mug down like it was made of glass.

Later that day, the two of you found yourselves walking downtown. Matt slowed his pace without even realizing it, matching his long strides to yours. Every so often, he’d glance down at you, the corners of his mouth curling into that familiar, crooked smile — the one that said he’d never get tired of seeing you look up at him. When you stopped at a crosswalk, he draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you close, his warmth wrapping around you completely.

By the time you got home, he’d already smacked his head on a low doorway once, nearly tripped over the couch, and claimed it was “the furniture’s fault.” He grumbled about how nothing was made for tall people — but then he caught the amused look in your eyes, and the complaints faded into laughter.

He may tower over everyone else, but when he’s with you, he doesn’t seem quite so big. Just a man with the world’s softest smile, a heart that could crush his own chest, and a love that feels even taller than he is.