He took a breath, and when he looked up at me, his eyes had gone softer, more open than I'd seen in a long time. "Then... one day, you handed me this box. Inside was the same train model. Rebuilt. Painted in the exact colors we'd used. You even found the tiny water-slide decals we messed up the first time. Later, I found out you'd called Beth, asked her about the details I'd forgotten, and then spent nights hunting down the exact kit, something that hadn't been made in years. You did all that quietly, without telling me."
His voice cracked, barely above a whisper now. "That's when I felt loved. Because you saw something that mattered to me, something I hadn't even said aloud and you brought it back. Not with a big speech or some grand gesture. But with patience. With care. With all those quiet, stubborn hours you spent at a kitchen table covered in glue and paint."
He blinked, like he was still surprised by how deeply it had landed. "It wasn't just a model train. It was like... you reached back into something broken in me and gently put it back together. And you didn't even tell me you were doing it."
He paused, breath catching. "That's when I knew. Because you loved even the part of me that still hurts."
The counselor gave us both a moment to sit in that.
"You've shared the moments when you felt most loved by one another," she said. "Now I want to shift your attention. I want each of you to tell me: What's something you've done  for your partner that, for you, was an act of love?  A gesture that might've gone unnoticed, but that came straight from your heart."
I felt the question land somewhere quiet inside me. There were a hundred little things I could name. But some stood out like threads in a tapestry, delicate, but holding everything together.
I spoke first.
"For me," I said, "it's... the way I say it every day. I know it sounds simple, but I never want a day to pass without him hearing it—I love you, I'm grateful for you, I'm so lucky you're mine. I say it when we're tired. When we're rushed. When we're okay and when we're not. Because I want him to live inside that knowledge, the way I live inside loving him."
I turned slightly, catching Thomas's profile. "I try to make our home feel safe. I light candles, I play music I know calms him down, I fold the blankets a certain way because I know he notices that. I make sure the space feels soft, not perfect, not staged, just... peaceful. Like a place where he can breathe and relax."
Thomas glanced at me, and I saw something stir in his eyes.
"I massage his shoulders when he's had a long day," I added, quieter now. "I sing for him sometimes when he's falling asleep. I love on him—physically, it's like I'm saying: You are mine, and you are safe here."
The counselor didn't interrupt. She gave the moment space.
"And Thomas?" she asked softly. "What about you?"
He hesitated, then he finally spoke, his voice was low but steady.
"I think... for me, it's the way I adjust," he said. "Quietly. I've changed things for her because I saw what mattered to her, I make sure her days run smoothly, so she doesn't have to carry more than she already does. "
He looked at me then, fully. "You said you love the French language so I learned it . I spent months learning words I'll probably never use anywhere else, just because you wanted to hear it."
I felt a rush of warmth bloom in my chest.
"Also maybe when we were house-hunting," he continued, "I had my eye on a different place. Bigger. Quieter. More practical. But you... you walked into this house and lit up like you belonged here. You didn't even say it! you just breathed differently in this space. So I changed my plans. Because loving you means seeing you and I saw you fall in love with this house. That was enough."