Who would have thought?

He's now met the family and hasn't run screaming.

He offered to help my mother in the kitchen, held an extended conversation with my stepfather (a near impossible feat), stood in the rain by the fire singing bad Journey songs with my mother and seemed genuinely amused by the embarrassing stories of me as a teenager.

He said please and thank you. He opened doors and fetched drinks. He offered to drive my car home so that I could have drinks with my brother (visiting from out of state). Hell, he even tolerated my sister-in-law and entertained my young nieces.

My family? My family likes him. My family never likes anyone I bring home. And no, I don't just bring anyone home.

Me? I love him. Yes, I can say it now. I say it as often as I can, as does he. It's refreshing. It's amazing. It's perfect.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a keeper.

The gift.

His heart, it would appear, has been handed to me on a platter. "Be gentle," he pleads with his sky-colored eyes, "the last person who held this, as you can well see, tried running it through a blender and it's not so pretty any more. The bandages have helped some, but the scars will forever remain."

Ever so carefully, I lift my gift from the platter and hold it cupped in my hands. The sunlight streaks down on it, giving it a warm glow. I can feel it beating, can feel so much life still inside, hidden in the little crevices where she couldn't reach to kill.

I press my lips against his heart and give it a gentle kiss. Heat rises to the surface, warming my cheeks. It begins to beat a little faster and, as I pull away, I can see a healing taking place. I kiss it once again before tucking it inside of the safe next to my own.

"I have a secret," I confess to him, "but I'm afraid to say it."

"You know you can tell me anything," he says as I fall into his embrace. "You don't have to be scared."

I close my eyes as I rest my head against his chest. A tear escapes from my eye into the cotton of his shirt. I take a deep breath and sigh.

"Tell me, baby," he pleads. "I want to know."

I open my eyes and tilt my head upward to look into his. The moment feels so powerful, the silence between us so telling. I don't want to say this, I'm absolutely terrified, but I can't not. The words slip out before I even realize I'm saying them: "I love you."

A smile spreads across his mouth as he brings my lips to his for a kiss. "I love you, too," he whispers, "and you have no idea how long I've been hoping you'd say that."

I hug him tighter, crying freely now. "Why didn't you tell me then?" I ask.

"Because I was as terrified as you." I can see that he's crying now, too. "I love you."

"I love you, too."