It’s nearing 1AM and we’re still giggling like little kids. We’ve been talking and laughing since we got in bed at nine. With our fingers entangled, our hope for decent sleep is out the window but these are our favorite nights. It’s on nights like this that we slip back in love and I remember every single thing I love about him.

Seeing freckles on his shoulders makes my lips long to kiss them. I’ve seen them a million times but I’m still so fond of each and every dot. Freckles mark every inch of his shoulders, back, and arms…freckles from t-ball or soccer or long childhood days by the water. Maybe from when he got a little older and any excuse was good enough to go shirtless.

There are scars on his lip from his wrestling days. There’s a new scar on his foot from when he was with me- a made up diving board contest on Father’s Day that ended in multiple bloodied feet. Scars pepper his arms, his hands, and his face, each with a story that makes me stop and listen.

I could trace my finger along the lines I’ve crossed, which are faded and hard to see. I know where to look when I start to worry. His nails are always shorter when he’s stressed and his face gets splotchy when he’s pushing himself too far. His tells are engraved in my brain, as I know him better than the back of my hand.

He’s wholesome and good and pure at his core. He holds me with ease, his hands are always warm, and he’s happy to dance along. While he’s hardly one to balk, his sense of humor is more silly than crude. He loves babies, puzzles, cats, baths, and, most importantly, he seems to really love every version of me. He patiently unpacks all of my baggage with me, understanding and always kind. My dear Otis is a lot of things but my favorite is mine.