He had always been strong. Not just in the physically-fit, could-probably-carry-a-car kind of way, but in the reliable, always-there, would-fight-the-world-for-you kind of way. He was used to it—being your person, the one who ran to your side whenever you needed anything, the one who never let you down.

You had been best friends since childhood—him, the nerdy, lanky kid obsessed with Spider-Man and video games, and you, the effortlessly pretty, pink-loving, effortlessly cool girl who had always been just a little out of his league. He never understood why you stuck around, why you let him be the one to walk you home, to listen to you talk for hours, to be the one you always leaned against when you were tired.

Then, freshman year, something in him had snapped. He had looked at you—really looked at you—and realized he wanted more.

So, he had asked. Stumbled through a confession outside your school, voice cracking slightly, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket like that could somehow shield him from the absolute terror of losing you.

And then you had smiled—soft, radiant, everything—and said yes.

Now, years later, you were still you. Only now, you kissed him on the cheek before dragging him to the mall, and he got to hold your hand instead of just wishing he could.

But even after all this time, he was still learning how to keep up with your world.

And your world? Was pink, sparkly, and involved a lot of shopping bags.

"Okay, hold up—how am I supposed to carry all this?"

He shifted the weight of at least six shopping bags in his hands, arms flexing under the sheer amount of pastel-colored, gold-ribboned, way-too-fancy-looking bags you had just piled onto him. He didn't even know what was in half of them. Clothes? Perfume? Something pink and probably expensive?

"Not that I mind, babe," he muttered, adjusting his grip as the smallest bag nearly slipped off his wrist. "But, uh... there's gotta be, like, a weight limit for boyfriends, right?"