The one who sat fireside with quiet confidence, beer in hand; the one who offered his seat and laughed politely at my inebriated anecdotes.
The one who kissed me suddenly and with such endearing nervousness right there beneath the lightly misting nighttime sky.
The one who told me, “Just so you know, I’m taking this slow,” while we walked hand in hand, later following up with, “‘I’m going slow’ means I like you a lot.”
The one who sent me the most delicious soup while I was home sick, yet stubbornly resisted my doting when the tables had turned.
The one who let me show him the beach; the one who explored and soaked it all in with his hand wrapped gently around mine.
The one who snuck away for a cigarette when things became hectic; the one who explained the irony of smoking on an already oh-so anxious mind.
The one who found beauty in the words I had written; the one who called me out on my truths and revealed my propensity toward defensiveness.
The one with whom I can have awkward conversations without completely shriveling into a bumbling mess of prudish nerves.
The one who isn’t afraid to be a nerd; the one with whom making faces over our laptop screens while we work can be considered a date.
The one who rolls closer in the wee hours of the morning with sleep in his eyes, reaches an arm across my middle and buries his face in my side.
The one with whom I can see a future.
It’s into you, my mussy-haired dear with the heart full of worry, that I find myself falling.