Quirk of His Lips.

When I look at him, I know he loves me. I can see it in every move, every gesture. It's in the quirk of his lips when I use the wrong word, in the flinch when I drop something, in the arch of his eyebrows when I say something idiotic. It emanates from every pore of him: he loves me. I can feel it in the way that he hugs me, like he never wants to let me go. I can see it in the way he watches me when he thinks I haven't noticed. I can hear it when he uses any one of the number of affectionate nicknames that he's created. I know he loves me, from the way he holds my hand when we hear the list of the missing, from the way he turned to me when his parents died, from the way his arm loops over my waist when he sleeps. Yes. I know he loves me.