Home.

He was boring.

Not in the same way of a lecture, or an instruction manual for an appliance, but in the way of a quiet afternoon. In the way of a 58°, overcast with showers, curled up under a throw blanket, watching the raindrops race each other down the glass kind of day.

He was predictable.

Not in the same way of the seat always being left up, or socks being left on the floor, but in the way of a welcoming smile at the end of a trying day. In the way of your favorite song lifting your mood on a gloomy day, and the way your grandma's signature dish would taste every holiday.

He was warm.

Not in the same way of a peeling sunburn, or of an iron left on a pair of dress slacks for too long, but in the way of a long awaited embrace. In the way of a hot cup of cider, resting in your palms on a chilly autumn morning as the sun begins to peek through the leaves, painted in their orange and red hues.

He was quiet.

Not in the same way of a pregnant pause, or an uncomfortable silence, but rather one of understanding. In a way that said, "I understand your existence without effort, and am fluent in this language we've created," and in the way that a rumble of thunder follows a flash of lightning during a summer storm, lulling you gently to sleep.

He was home.

Not in the way that he lived there, or even with her, but in the way that he made her feel. In the way that felt like she could be vulnerable again, safe again, herself again.