He feels like home. Everything about him feels like home. Being in his arms makes me feel like a million Sunday afternoon naps, stretched out over the course of many years, curled up on a couch we picked out together and some sort of sports game on (way too loud) and him causing me to jolt awake every time a bad call is made and he jumps up as if to attack the referee. Being in the passenger seat beside him with my hand in his makes me feel like a million Saturday nights, stretched out over the course of many years, driving with the windows down on a breezy, calm, small town night after we've just eaten dinner together and laughed at the names of items on the menu and I tip although he paid the bill (like always, because he's a gentleman, but he also never carries cash). Being with him feels like being with the other part of me... the piece I wasn't missing but could never be the same without. And, finally, being with him feels like hands lifted high, bass drum beating loudly and consistently, matching my heartbeat, singing praises to the God of real love. God, our true love, who gave us each other, to love and to cherish, forever. 

Being with Brady feels like home.