I'm in love.

I want to cook for him all day. He makes me want to dress up and put on eyeliner and heels, even though I know he prefers me without them. He said my name with his last name in a heavy Italian accent and looked so pleased with how it sounded that my heart melted into a puddle at my feet and I could have sung. He talks about the children we used to talk about having when we were a couple 3 years ago.
He puts no pressure on me to love him, or to not love him, or to change myself, or to change him, or to remain the same. He is currently the only person that is able to completely alleviate me of the stress I've been experiencing lately.
He loves me.
He plays songs for me which he wrote about me when we were together. We are good drinking buddies. He brings out the dirty, crudely hilarious Camille that is so often tamed by those around her. He appreciates the little things I do for him, the exact things I want him to appreciate, and he makes me a more caring and compassionate human being.
He makes me happy.
When we hold hands it is electric.

It is romance.