Better than a box of chocolates.

It's his laugh, I thought as his entire face broke into the kind of laughter that I can't help but listen to in wonder.

I had called him an asshat. And as he laughed, he rolled his face into the pillow, hiding his toothy grin and long eyelashes into its 300-count pillowcase.

How can I not laugh? His laugh in contagious.

Our individual laughters complement each other. When I laugh, his follows. When he laughs, I can't help but grin in return.

It's his honesty. And the sincerity in his voice when he tells me he loves me, calls me a trout and believes I'm beautiful when I have toothpaste on my face as makeshift pimple-reducer.

It's something as simple as the word "asshat" that sends the two of us into a fit of hysterics, and that's all I need to feel complete. Or when he brings home an armful of flowers, a gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream and generic NyQuil as his own home remedy for a cold.

But it's lazy Sunday mornings in bed, when we sling light-hearted insults at each other and steal kisses without revealing morning breath, while flipping the television channels between golf tournaments, that I know I've found my equal.

He is my asshat. And I am his. And it needn't be any other way.

I love you.