And we walked out once more beneath the stars, beneath the universe, beneath galaxies and planets and moons.

It was cold, and our breaths kissed passionately—saying what our lips wished to do. He was so much taller than me; my dark, rigid soldier. He walked in sharp, predictable paces, and my legs had to take two steps to match each of his strides. We were an interesting couple—he'd grimace if he heard me using such a term—but it was true.

There were no public declarations of affection—no holding hands, calling each other silly nicknames, or kissing in doorways. But if one looked closer, they'd notice he never left my side. In crowded areas, he'd place his dextrous and beautiful fingers on the small of my back; he'd offer his coat (before chiding me, of course) in the event that I had forgotten my own, and he always, always, pulled out my chair and seated me at dinner time.

Oh, but what I love most are our private moments!

The moments when I see all of his guards come crashing down; the moments when my heart jumps into my throat to settle for awhile. He is so subtly affectionate—sometimes moving a determined strand behind my ear; sometimes placing his hand on my knee during meals; sometimes pulling me into his lap while he reads on numbers and figures and ancient secrets.

He has the infuriating ability to turn me into a puddle of hot liquid. When I see the tight muscles of anger fading from his face into the stretched, effortless indication of happiness—my heart rejoices in his moment of solitary elation.

Dear gods, his smile!

He makes it a habit to remind me that he NEVER smiles, but he does. And it is breathtaking in its rarity.

He smiles most often when I am having a fit over trivial things. He'll lean against the doorway, arms crossed, smirk in place, and say, "Your worried pout amuses me most," before adding, "And I find it terribly endearing."

(This is when I turn into that puddle).

My friends urge me to find someone new—someone who will laugh at their jokes, pat them on the back for their efforts, and buy me chocolate; pretty things. But their love is flawed, and mine is forever blooming, expanding, and exploding.

And so it is night—but the dark has no affect on my emotions, for I am hiding the sun itself beneath my ribcage. I look over to my sarcastic, cynical and glum lover, and I laugh, and I laugh and I laugh. He hardly acknowledges this, save for the slight quirk of his brow, and before my breath calms to a steady rhythm, my dark, rigid soldier, in an act so out of character, pulls me to his chest and kisses me hard—shaming our mingled breaths' dance.

Note: The very first line is "partly" from The Inferno by Dante Alighieri.