I’m 24, taller than most people in the room, and somehow she still manages to look up at me like I’m the one nervous. I don’t try to be cute—it just happens, or at least that’s what she tells me when I catch her smiling for no reason. I notice the little things about her. The way she laughs before finishing a sentence. The way she leans closer when she’s comfortable. I listen, really listen, because with her it feels easy to care. Some nights turn quiet, just us talking about nothing and everything. She steals my hoodie like it’s already hers, and I let her because it kind of is. Walking beside her, I slow my steps without thinking, making sure she never has to keep up. I don’t rush love. I don’t need to. She’s here, and I am too—24, tall, soft-smiling, and exactly where I want to be.