Prompt was imperfections.
"This is going to sound pathetically romantic, but – do you love me?"
Severus took his time putting down his scotch, hearing the ice clink in the glass, and easing his reading glasses off his prominent nose. He looked at the slim, dark-haired man – still a boy, really – sprawled across his sofa.
Harry bit his lip, and Severus's breath caught slightly. Yes, he realized; yes, he did love the boy, despite his many imperfections.
Despite his snoring. Despite his recklessness. Despite his Gryffindor-red boxers. Despite his love of sweets. Despite his pathetic romanticism.
"Yes, Harry. I do."
Despite all the odds.