I have always believed love was an abstract thing; something you feel but never truly touch, until my man proved me wrong. With him, love feels like golden light spilling through half-drawn curtains, or the hush of rain against the window when the world outside is too loud. He doesn’t need to lace his affection in grand declarations; instead, it rests in the way he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, the way his laughter folds into mine as if we share the same heartbeat. Even in the stillness, when words are scarce, there is a warmth between us, quiet but undeniable, like the glow of embers that never fade.

My man is not a shield, yet he is my anchor. He does not stop the storms, but he stands with me in their centre, his hand steady in mine, as though the chaos could never touch us. With him, love has no sharp edges, it is silk against skin, a tide that always returns, a home I can carry wherever I go. And as the sun dips low, staining the sky in hues of copper and rose, I catch his gaze and know: I am not simply loved, I am his—kept, adored, and held in a way that feels rarer than the morning after the longest night.