The sunlight always hit her light brown eyes and made the amber in them dance. Her smile, that smile, was something he knew he could never get enough of. She always woke before he did and before uncurling from his arms, she kissed his earlobe not once, but twice. And when he combed his fingers through her hair, she sank into him as he combed out every knot, every tangle. And when she cried (which she did often), it was always for others, never herself. He would always be careful with his words of wisdom to her and smooth away the tears from her button nose with his calloused hands. If they were far apart for too long, he missed the tinkle of her laugh and the crinkle in her wide eyes. But he could never go to bed mad at her, for if he did, he would lie awake with his heart drowning in the acidity of his stomach. When he made love to her, her fingers always entwined with his. And when he looked into her eyes and she bit her lip, letting her eyelashes flutter open to greet his, he could feel it in the pits of his stomach.
He looked at her and he knew.