Jared smiled faintly, his hand slipping beneath her chin to gently tilt her face toward his. "You're my type," he said simply, his voice calm yet unwavering.
It wasn't a grand declaration, nor was it wrapped in flowery prose—it didn't need to be. The quiet sincerity of his words carried more weight than any elaborate confession ever could. It was the truth, raw and unvarnished, and that was enough.
As he spoke, his mind wandered to the early days of their relationship. He could still recall the intoxicating rhythm of their courtship—the beautifully chaotic dance of push and pull that had kept him on his toes. Jerica had a way of keeping him guessing, making him chase her without ever feeling lost.
Even now, years later, she hadn't lost her touch. A glance, a smile, the faintest brush of her fingers—she still held the power to unravel him. He was helplessly, irrevocably hers, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
