You're sitting there at the end of the couch, your nose stuck in one of your favorite books. I assume it's a favorite; I've seen you read it before. You don't read terrible novels like I do. You're always picking on me about the bad mystery novels I like to read, always spoiling the endings for me. I don't think I've been able to read a mystery novel with you around for at least a year. That is, unless I want the endings to be told to me before I reach them.

I'm on the other side of the couch, not too far away, but far enough so we both have our own space. I can't feel your body heat from where I am and it feels a little cold over here all of the sudden. I don't move, however. That would be too obvious. I can't move or else you'll know I need you closer. I'm a big boy. I can handle not being right up next to you all the time. That's what I tell myself, but really, I want to be near you all the time.

This time, I'm not reading anything. This time, I'm drawing. I've decided to practice my designing, seeing how it's gotten a little rusty. I'd like to design something for you. Something I've created myself that you could have with you for longer than an hour at dinner. Your watch that you keep in your pocket was designed by me, down to the last detail. It was the first gift I ever gave you and I was so proud of it. When you opened that box, your face lit up and it was beautiful. I'd like to do that again, sometime. Maybe this time it can be a jacket, or a pair of shoes.

Something just caught my eye and I realized it was your wedding band shining in the light of the lamp nearby. When you turned the page of your book, the band gleamed and it was so pretty. The ring looks very lovely on your finger, I've noticed. I remember back before you wore the ring and your finger looks too bare without it, in my memory.

I turn my attention back to my drawing pad and I sketch a little more. Pencil line after pencil line, the sketch gets closer to becoming complete, but I'm still not satisfied. Perhaps that's the trouble with artists. They're never satisfied even when they've done something outstanding. Even when the artist knows it, knows that they've created something nobody else could create, they can still find something they don't like about the piece.  I feel that way about myself, sometimes.

Casually, I've gotten a little more comfortable on the couch. It's successful because you didn't even glance over from the page you're reading. I know because I watched out of the corner of my eye. You don't know this yet, but I've gotten a little closer and I feel a little more comfortable, now. Not because I changed my position on the couch, but because I know that I've closed the distance between us. It's a small distance, only a few inches, but I like it much better compared to the three inches that were keeping us separated.

I smile down at my drawing pad and my pencil isn't moving anymore. I've suddenly become lost in my thoughts about how cute you look, propped up against the armrest of the couch, your legs pulled up underneath you. I'm surprised you're not sprawled all over the place like you normally sit. I'm a little happy, because that means I can sit next to you, but I also like it when you lay your legs across my lap. It's a little detail that I rather enjoy. You like to take up as much space as you can, and perhaps you're trying to tease me by getting in my way, but you're actually not. You don't annoy me as easily as you think you do.

You shift on the couch and I glance over subtly to watch, just barely lifting my head so I can see.  Even the small movements you make as you get more comfortable in your corner of the couch make me smile and my heart beats a little faster. Your lips curl into a small grin. You must have read something that amused you. It's a small smile, almost invisible, but I can see it clearly. I've seen that smile before. It's genuine and very rare to everyone, but I see it often. I feel so lucky and not at all selfish for not sharing.

Sometime between looking down at my sketch book and thinking about how cute your hair looks framing the side of your face, I've managed to get a little closer, but you still haven't noticed, yet. I'm close enough that I can feel your warmth, but we're not touching. It's too bad that your hand isn't down on the couch cushions between us or else I'd slip my fingers in between yours and hold your hand. It would be such a subtle movement and you might not even look down at our hands, but you would tighten your grip around mine and acknowledge the touch. My heart would race again and I would smile. That's how in love I am.

My sketchbook is no longer in my hand and I just now noticed. I've apparently sat it down on the couch beside me, the side you're not on, and I brush a few strands of hair behind your ear. You've looked over at me now and you look a little confused, but you're not saying anything. You don't have to. Just your expression is enough to voice your feelings and you know I can understand that, so I kill any confusion by finishing off the rest of the distance between us.

Our lips touch lightly and it's enough to make my heart pound against my chest. You're warm and soft and sweet like always. It never changes, the way you kiss. It's a constant, always the same, but I like it that way.

"I love you," I say and you pull me close for another kiss. It's deeper this time and more passionate. You're keeping me there and I can't pull away and I know why. I love you, too, is what you're saying, but through your actions, instead. I love how you express yourself to me. It speaks louder than any words you could ever say.

Perhaps, this whole time, you've wanted the distance closed between us just as much as I did?