The first time she says I love you, there's a frigid chill to the air and he has to brave the winter morning to raise his gaze above the covers. He thinks she might of mumbled the sentiment in her sleep because her head is a mop of brown curls buried beside him and she'd breathing in perfect rhythm, the sound threatening to lull him back into the same state. He wonders if perhaps he heard wrong but doesn't dwell on the fact, too cold and exhausted to give it proper thought. Instead, he wraps his arm around her body and nudges further into the inviting warmth.
The second time isn't dissimilar to the first, though circumstances are a lot more dire. She swears over and over that it's just the flu, a strain unique to her altered physiology that she succumbs to every four to five years. It's not that he doesn't believe her but The Big Guy's conformation eases his nerves as he wipes her brow through the worst of the fever. It's then that the three words slip out, barely audible and followed by a string of incomprehensible sentences. She's delusional and despite The Big Guy's selective deafness, he's resolved to question her when she's well enough. He doesn't, too absorbed with relief to ruin the moment.
He's not sure whether he can trust the third time. For three days he can't even recall his own name, let alone the attack leading to four cracked ribs, a broken arm and a severe concussion. In the drug induced haze he dreams of her voice at his bedside, her light fingers stroking his hand and the words that spur his body into a long recovery. She's there for every minute, remaining firm when he takes his frustration out on her and soothing him gently when it all gets too much but she never mentions what happened while he was unconscious. Clearly it's difficult for her and he'd prefer she try and forget his susceptibility to injury.
The forth time is a little more certain, however it's drowned out by the loud beat of his heart and strangely, the deafening silence surrounding them. Only a few seconds before he'd unintentionally let the words slip from his mouth first, drawn forth by the vision of her body wrapped in a tight silk dress and he can barely breathe as she turns from the mirror, smiling whilst she fiddles with the back of her earring. She calls his name in question and he closes the distance between them, asking -just so he can be entirely sure- for her to say it again. She does. However, it's hidden behind an amused smirk and he takes her hand, not caring that she's making fun of him as he presses hotly to her lips. In an instant her smugness is gone, their engagement forgotten as they try to navigate the laws of physics to get to the bed without breaking something in her room. They're partially successful. The lamp becomes a casualty in their tryst but he's of the opinion it's a worthy sacrifice.
The times thereafter are still few and far between but he deliberately stops counting, for once believing in quality over quantity. He gives a mental nod to his fourth grade teacher, who he can still hear uttering the phrase over his ten page report that scored a C. He could request Helen write a whole book detailing her feelings for him but aside from the fact she'd assume he was joking, he doesn't want that from her.
He wants exactly what he has; love, that pen on paper and even words can't bring justice to.
The notion is plenty enough.