We're agreed

"You know you feel it."

"Yeah, so," I say sheepishly and turn my head away, attempting to hide my flushing cheeks. Of course I realize there's no use. He knows. Everyone knows. I'm like a book some say. At this particular moment, I'm more like a picture book; anyone can read me. I do feel it. I just don't know how to say it. That's not entirely true. Fear grips me tightly and squeezes every breath from me. I can't say it. It's physically impossible.

"Okay, so I feel it. I'm not saying it. I'm not using the "L" word. I refuse." I feel like I've admitted defeat. There might as well have been a stick in my hand with a white flag tied to the end waving in the air. I looked up to find a little smirk on his face. Quickly, I looked away again.

"We're agreed then." He kissed me once and smiled.


That was then... Now, well, now things are different.
He took the leap. After watching him dive in, I followed. And I've never been happier nor have I been so afraid. The "L" word isn't to be thrown around and used like some common term. It carries with it weight and deep profound meaning.

I caught myself gazing up at him as I was sprawled across one side of his bed and he sat typing away on the Mac. I realized how much I simply adore him. He's perfect in the ways that I am not. We compliment each other well. We enjoy each other's humor. That is something!

Sunday (Father's Day) evening he stopped by my house and ventured a game of Scene It with my family. Games are often dangerous in our house. We're a bit competitive and often ruthless. Well, depending on the game. When it comes to trivia... we tend to get a bit fierce. The day had been long and hot. We were all a bit tired and cranky. He stuck it out. I'm so pleased he gets along with my family. It's so very important to me. After everyone had gone to bed we stayed up to watch a few episodes of Robot Chicken.

He rested his head in my lap and his long body stretched out over the couch. Moments later I noticed his breathing had changed. I watched as his chest rose and fell rhythmically. There in my lap he slept, weary from a long day. It was perfect. My romantic side, the one I often tend to stifle, took great delight in the situation. It's possible that he was just so exhausted he would have fallen asleep anywhere. The other side of me argued that he was in fact quite content sleeping in my lap. I desperately longed to bend down and lightly kiss his soft lips. Of course, I refrained. He needed the sleep and I didn't want to ruin the perfect image.

One foot in front of the other. That's the only way to really go forward, right? That's the approach I'm taking anyway.