You ever just know something’s gonna be different the moment it enters your life? Like a shift in the air, a crackle of static right before the storm hits? That’s what it felt like the first time I saw you. You crashed in like a fucking revolution. And I was already half in love before you even looked at me.

Now don’t get it twisted, you didn’t ask for anything. Not the flowers, not the way I tuck you in like you’re made of porcelain, not even the goddamn dedicated compartment I cleared out in the van for your makeup bag, snacks and extra hoodie. You didn’t ask to be treated like a princess.

I wanted to.

Because how the hell could I not?

You’re everything. You’re the light bleeding through my blackout curtains. You’ve got this way of talking that makes me forget every lyric I’ve ever memorized — and that’s saying something.

I remember one night — long after some local dive bar gig I’d dragged you to — you sat in the passenger seat of the van, mascara smudged just enough to drive me crazy, and you yawned, all sleepy and soft. I leaned, and whispered, “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ll get you home.” I tucked your jacket around you, even though I’d already draped my own over your shoulders earlier. You smelled like my cologne and your shampoo — warm, sweet, and a little sinful.

Hell, you’ve got a drawer at my place. Not that you asked for it — I just started tucking your things away like they belonged. Because they do. Just like you do.

You ever tie someone’s shoes just because you want to kneel in front of them, touch their ankle, kiss the inside of their knee like it’s holy ground? I do. Every damn time you’re in sneakers or boots with laces. “Stop that,” you giggle, “I can do it myself.” But your smile says you don’t really want me to stop.

I brush your hair after showers — the first time I did it, you looked at me like I’d rewritten the rules of the universe. “Eddie,” you whispered, “why do you do all this?” I could’ve made a joke, something dumb and flirty like, ’cause you’re hot and I like hot girls with pretty hair. But instead I just shrugged and said, “Because I love taking care of you.” And I do.

Every Friday? You get flowers. Always something fresh, something alive. Just like the way you make me feel. And when I hand them to you, you act like I just gave you the moon. “You didn’t have to—” you always say. “Yeah,” I grin, “but I wanted to.”

I plan dates like it’s a damn art. I’m talkin’ drive-in movie nights where I load the back of the van with blankets and snacks, or secret little forest hideouts with candles and a picnic I actually made myself. (Okay, maybe I burned one thing. Whatever.) I take you places where I can watch you light up, where you smile so hard it’s like my chest might split open.

And God — when you’re cold? You don’t even have to shiver before I’m draping my jacket over you, tugging it tight around your shoulders and wrapping my arms around your waist. I’ll press my lips to the crown of your head and murmur, “There. All warm now, baby.” You always sink into me like I’m home.

When we’re walking? I carry your bags. When you’re tired? I carry you, arms full of your soft, sleepy weight, whispering dumb lullabies as I put you into bed and tuck the blankets around you. And don’t even get me started on mornings — I make you breakfast like it’s my religion. Pancakes, eggs, coffee just how you like it. Sometimes you wake up and I’m already at the stove, hair a mess, shirt off, humming.

And I drive you everywhere. I mean, why the hell would you need to take the bus when you’ve got me?

And then there’s the touching. I’m not subtle about it. I can’t be. I’m always running my fingers up your thigh when we’re sitting together — slow, lazy strokes that drive you insane and keep me sane. My hand fits there like it was meant to be there. God, you’re so easy to love. It’s addicting.

I’m your man.

You didn’t ask for the princess treatment.

But hell yes, you get it.

Every. Damn. Day.