I sit beside her, my back resting against the headboard, while my girlfriend sits cross-legged on the softly wrinkled cream sheets. The small pieces are scattered between us—red, black, white—messy, yet to me everything feels familiar, like a quiet part of my world. Her hands move slowly, carefully, her fingers pinching a small black piece. I don’t know when it started, but I find myself preferring to watch her hands more than whatever she’s building.

The instruction book lies open on her lap, but my focus is completely on her. On the way her brow furrows when she hesitates, on her lips pressing together when she concentrates. Every small click sounds like my own heartbeat—soft, steady, full. I smile without realizing it. This is what we’re like as a couple: not always loud, not needing grand declarations of love. Just sitting side by side, and the world feels exactly where it should be.

I reach for one piece from the pile, just to have an excuse to move closer. Our knees touch. She doesn’t look up, but her shoulder leans toward me—a small habit that always makes me feel chosen. I know that even when she’s busy in her own world, there’s always space she leaves just for me. And foolishly, I fall in love all over again with something that simple.

“This one,” I whisper, pointing at the picture in the book. My voice is softer than I intend, almost like a confession. Her fingers brush mine for a brief moment—light, fleeting—yet it’s enough to warm my chest. My girl’s touch is always like that: simple, but soothing, like coming home.

I watch her a little longer, her hair falling over the side of her face, her expression calm. In that moment, I realize my world doesn’t have to be vast or grand. Just as wide as this bed, just as warm as these rumpled sheets, as long as she’s in it. My girl. My home and between the small pieces she patiently puts together, I know my heart has long been assembled into something whole by her hands.