I crawl into bed, gently grazing past a gangly, outstretched knee. He always slept sprawled about, strewn across the covers as if he was claiming his territory. That, or as if the trials of the day shot him down in exhaustion; and there he was, laid out in defeat like a bear skin rug draped ceremoniously across the floor, welcoming me to retreat. I happily oblige, snuggling up securely against him. I dig my face into his shoulder, clinging to his shirt as I savor his scent. The smell of fresh, clean cotton of the day's laundry...saturated by the crisp morning air he heroically drove through in his morning rounds. Being a paper boy, after all, took some hardcore gusto - not everyone could brave merciless sunless hours for a meager pauper's salary. Especially someone like him. I smiled sweetly to myself, musing over the very thought of him. It was ridiculous. His very presence made every mundane moment glow with the warmth and romance worthy of a love song, while he did absolutely nothing. Not a single declaratory act of love, not the lifting of a single complimentary finger, and yet I'm captured by him. God, he's nearly snoring - and I'm absolutely bewildered at how I find that unnaturally and utterly charming. Not that I saw bursting constellations of stars and sparks everytime I thought of him. No, we shared not the burning, heated passion of a supernova.. but more like the familiar warmth of a fireplace. At the end of the day, all I knew was that...

he felt like home. Despite who he was, that he didn't fit the role by far, he was my sanctuary.
And that kind of love, that was the kind I adored best, after all. He wasn't exciting in the kind of badass, I'll-take-you-on-a-helluva-wild-ride, dopamine-high kind of way. I didn't lust after him like I was tipping off aphrodisiacs. But he was challenging. His emotional stubbornness, his scarred mentality only allowed for the most subtle acts of affection - and those that portrayed the most personal proximity, if you were only willing enough realize it. I was an everyday romantic, not craving satin sheets or candy hearts, but breakfasts in bed with pancakes at midnight. Okay, that sounds like I just love to eat - Which I sheepishly admit that I do; the key to a woman's heart, after all, is her stomach! Or was that a man's? - but really, I do feel that cooking is divinely intimate. Cracking eggs, spotting flour on his nose, taking turns stirring and flipping, then savoring the results together. Come to think of it, I thought all mundane chores were sweetly and secretly intimate, simply because they were mundane. Doing everyday things seemed to hold the promise of just that -- that I would surely become part of his everyday, his staple. Hopefully, that associated me with unfaltering stability, and not the humdrum of a daily chore... but god knows how men think. I certainly don't.

To be perfectly honest, I didn't even know how he thought. For someone so prideful, so secluded... yet so secretly tender. For someone who almost strove to let life nothing more than a cursory glance... he stops for me. He lets me in. He loves me.

I gaze at him tenderly, lost at how lucky I was. Honestly, from far away, he looks like a dick. But he was my dick, who's really not a dick at all. In the craziness of it all, somehow I stopped to look. To take a good, discerning look. And I found something I could never bear to lose.

And what's more, he found me, too.

Some people pity me, me and my dick. They ponder over what crazy kinky sex we must have to make it all worthwhile, to drive us blind and crazy enough to actually bear one another. Because after all, I'm a little difficult, too.

But somehow, we love each other. Somehow, we bear each other. Somehow, we make it work.

Yawning, an eye peeks open, catching me gazing intently at him. "What's the matter, darling?" he asks, voice husky with sleep. He turns around to face me, and somehow I can't tell whether he's tired, excited, or concerned. But I melt every time he calls me darling, because it's something he learned from me. Even if just the littlest bit, somehow I changed him.

Even if just the littlest bit, I'm a part of him.

And he's a part of me. "Nothing, darling," I whisper softly, brushing his hair away from his face. "Go back to sleep."

He gladly obeys, and both eyes fall sweetly shut. And with that, I slip deeper into the blanket, burying my head in the pillow. Turned away from him, I whisper "I love you". I don't mind that he's already asleep.

Yet I feel a soft pressure on my head - a tender peck - as a gentle arm wraps securely around me.

"I love you, too."