I cut my finger this week. “Cut” is an understatement. To say I almost lost a huge chunk of my pinky is more accurate.

Anyway, as I was standing at the sink watching my finger bleed, wondering what to do about it, yelling (in a surprisingly calm voice), and musing at what a beautiful shade of red blood is, Justin showed up. Immediately he wrapped my finger, stopped the blood, and made a plan. He bought gauze and peroxide and, with a little help from my dad and a borrowed splint, had my finger on the road to healing.

Every day, Justin unwrapped the gauze, checked on my progress, cleaned my cut, and rewrapped it all.

I know this may sound weird, but I have been absolutely crazy about him this week. I feel like I’m sixteen. Sometimes, when he’s taking care of me I actually start giggling.

This act of tenderness—the way he holds my hand, the way he tries not to hurt me, the way he remembers to check up on me—all of it just screams “I love you.”

My husband takes care of me.

I just caught myself giggling.