On Saturday we were sitting in Chuy's in Dallas (you know Chuy's: think Jenna Bush... think margarita... think fake ID), spilling our souls out over spicy and saucy burritos.

On our way out, while I powdered my nose, he was pointing up at the world's most perfect pink "chuy's girl" t-shirt above the hostess stand in order to shower me with the pink cotton equivalent of the world's most magically romantic kiss.

Later that night in our hotel suite, I positioned myself in front of a nearly full-length mirror in the bedroom and began to bubble on and on about wearing my perfectly pink t-shirt with my black capri pants the next day. And at some point amidst my curtseys and tiptoed enthusiasms and merciless flirting with a large rectangle of reflective glass, I realized he was watching me. And over my blushing cheeks and girlish giggles, I looked into his eyes.

And if I wasn't sure before, I knew it right then. I knew he loved me beyond language. Beyond giddy excitement. Beyond comfortable familiarity. I felt my soul coiling like a vine around his, tangled and strong, inexplicably intertwined.

And it left me breathless.