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He has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. And he knows it's a burden to other's. But when he's around her, he doesn't obsess. He breathes, and smiles, and he finally gets a break from the swirling thoughts, the turning cogs, the twitching ticks in his mind.

When he thinks about her, the obsessive thoughts stop. When he thinks of her, he doesn't worry about whether or not the picture frame in his living room is straight, or if he folded the toilet paper into a triangle, or if he walked through the door a specific way, or if the candles are symmetrical.

When he thinks of her, he thinks of her hair (or lack thereof if you don't have any). He thinks about her smile, about her teeth, about her eyes, eyelashes, eyebrows, he thinks about her laugh and her love.

When he kisses her, he has to kiss her eight times. Because he has to make sure it's right. When he says 'I love you' to her, he has to pause, to make sure he said it right, because sometimes he doesn't think straight and when he's not thinking straight nothing is symmetrical.

He doesn't care that she isn't symmetrical, he doesn't care she isn't the Merriam-Webster Dictionary definition of perfect. Because she's perfect to him.

And when he absolutely has to make sure everything is fine before he leaves, she doesn't mind being late, and waits patiently by the door. And when he has to stop walking because the side walk has so many cracks in it, and he has to count them all, she stops too, and silently counts with him. She doesn't care about the stripes in his hair. She promises him they look great. She makes him forget they're there in the first place.

She sees the ticks in his hands as a picture on the wall tilts. She brings her hand up, massaging out the tension at the nape his neck.

"Go ahead," she smiles, nodding. He sighs, relived he won't ruin dinner by standing and centering the frame.

That night, she watches as he flicks the lights on and off eight times. Then, he fluffs the pillow eight times before crawling in bed with her. She doesn't mind, and opens up her arms. They sigh together, closing their eyes. His breath hitches.

"What is it, baby?" she mumbles, smoothing back his hair.

"I have to check the toilet paper," he mutters, standing up.

"Okay," she smiles, sitting up, "Take your time, love. Don't rush yourself."

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut briefly before walking from the room to check each bathroom. After making sure the toilet paper ends are indeed folded into symmetrical triangles, he returns to the room.

He repeats flickering the lights. He repeats fluffing the pillow. He repeats crawling into to bed. And she smiles softly, watching as he makes sure everything is perfect. He sighs, smiling in relief when one of her hands comes up to massage the back of his neck again.

"Goodnight, Kid," she mumbles, curling up with him. His thoughts jumble for the billionth time that night. He breathes out shakily, calming his nerves before uttering into her ear.

"I love you."

"And I love you," she hums sweetly.

If it weren't for her - if it weren't for you - he would still be up making sure everything was symmetric and perfect. He would still be ticking, thinking about the order of his life.

He has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. And he knows it's a burden to other's. But when he's around her, he doesn't obsess. He breathes, and smiles, and he finally gets a break from the swirling thoughts, the turning cogs, the twitching ticks in his mind.