People talk. Always have, always will.

Whispers in the hall, eyes darting when they think I’m not looking. But what really grinds my fucking teeth is when those whispers aren’t about me—hell, I’m used to that—but about you.

My girl. My muse. My everything.

They think you don’t hear it. That you’re too “soft” to notice the looks, the quiet little insults hidden behind a laugh or some fake-ass compliment. But you do. I see it every goddamn time you pull your sleeves down a little lower, tugs at the hem of your shirt like it can hide the curves that make my blood fucking sing. Every time you bite your lip and smile like you’re trying to disappear.

“You okay, baby?” I asked her once, when we were sitting on the hood of my van under the stars. You just shook your head, tears silently slipping down your cheeks. You tried to laugh it off.

“Just being silly,” you mumbled. “Wish I could be small enough to just…fit.”

I gripped your face so gently it hurt. “Fit where?” I demanded, voice low and rough. “In someone else’s idea of what’s beautiful? Fuck that. Fuck them. You fit here.” I pressed your hand over my heart. “You own this.”

You cried harder. I kissed you even harder.

People think it’s strange, the way I look at you like I’m starved. Like I’d burn the world down just to keep you warm. But they don’t see the goddess I see—the way your hips sway when you’re not trying to hide them, the way your body feels under my hands, like it was carved out of fucking sin and poetry. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up next to you, your cheeks flushed with sleep, your body curled against me like I’m your safe place.

They don’t hear the way you laugh when I whisper things in your ear like:

“Do you know how hard it is to not touch you every second of every day?”

Or

“Baby, the way that shirt clings to your tits is making me consider starting a riot.”

Or

“Every inch of you is art. And I’m the luckiest bastard alive to worship it.”

Yeah. I say shit like that. All the time. Because it’s true. Because you need to hear it in a world that keeps trying to make you shrink.

I remember this one night after some asshole muttered something behind your back at the arcade. You didn’t say anything at first. Just tightened your hoodie around your body and asked to go home early. I drove you straight to my place instead.

“No hiding,” I told you, fingers under your chin. “Not here.”

“Eddie…”

“You are the most beautiful creature to ever exist,” I said. “And I will punch a dude in the face if I ever hear shit like that again.”

Your voice was small. “You’d fight for me?”

“Have, baby. Will again. Any day. Every day.”

Then I put on some old vinyl and pulled you into the living room.

“What are you doing?” you asked, half-laughing, still blinking back tears.

“Slow dancing. In the middle of the night. With the girl of my fucking dreams.”

You melted into me, and I swear, the way your body fit against mine… I could’ve died right there.

So yeah, let ‘em talk. Let ‘em whisper.

Because I’ve got the only thing in this world that matters.

And you’re mine.