i'm always dreaming, even when i’m awake

𝓐 = affection (how do they show affection? how affectionate are they?)

dex shows affection by orbiting you like he physically can’t stay away. he is there, all the time. he learns you. everything. the way you breathe when you’re falling asleep, the sound of your footsteps in the hall, the way your voice shifts when you’re lying. he’ll do little things for you constantly, fix the crooked picture frame, refill your drink before you notice it’s empty, adjust the thermostat because he knows what temperature you like. affection for him is proximity; being near you, knowing you’re safe, knowing you still look at him like he’s something good. he touches more than he talks, hand on your back guiding you through a crowd, thumb brushing your jaw when you’re focused, fingertips tracing patterns against your thigh while you read. when you’re gone, he’s restless, like he can’t breathe right until you’re near again. you become his center point, the anchor he builds his whole day around. he doesn’t just love you, he fixates, studies, protects. it’s not about gestures or words for him, it’s about being needed, about making himself essential, so even your smallest routines start to revolve around him too.

𝓑 = best friend (what are they like as a best friend? how would a friendship with them start?)

as a best friend, dex latches on in a way that’s both flattering and a little unsettling. at first, he’s quiet, watching you more than talking, learning how you move, what makes you laugh, what irritates you. and once he decides you’re someone worth orbiting, you become his blueprint. everything you do filters through him; he starts mirroring you without realizing it, your phrases, your gestures, the way you carry yourself. if you love a certain song, it’s suddenly on his playlist. if you hate a food, he won’t touch it again. his sense of self gets tangled with yours because, to him, being close means becoming what you love. you become his compass, his moral anchor, and his idea of normal. when you’re gone he flounders, like he doesn’t know how to exist right without you there to reflect off of. it starts innocently, wanting to impress you, to be good enough, but it grows into something more consuming. he starts basing his worth on your approval. your moods dictate his, your praise lights him up, your disapproval wrecks him.

𝓒 = cuddles (do they enjoy cuddling? what are they like during cuddles, and how long can they stand it?)

at first, cuddling feels foreign to dex. his body will stay stiff against yours, locked like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. but the longer it lasts, the more it unravels him. the warmth, the closeness, the sound of your breathing, it hits him somewhere deep, somewhere he didn’t know was starving. soon it becomes a need. he starts craving your touch. if you don’t reach for him, he’ll hover close enough that you have to, brushing his knee against yours, resting a hand near your thigh, anything that makes you close that distance first. when you do hold him, he melts instantly, all that built-up tension dissolving as he buries his face against your neck or your chest. he likes when you hold him tight, grounding, like you mean it. if you pull away too soon he notices, his mind immediately spinning: did i do something wrong? are they mad?

𝓓 = domestic (how do they handle chores, cooking, cleaning, and everyday living?)

routine keeps him sane. he needs things ordered, each object in its exact place, each surface spotless enough to catch the light. there’s comfort in repetition, in folding shirts the same way every time, in scrubbing a dish until the sound of it squeaks. he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right, not because he thinks you’re careless, but because the smallest difference, one misplaced fork, one crooked frame, throws him off balance. he’ll redo things after you’ve done them, smoothing wrinkles, straightening lines. cooking is the same ritual: measured movements, careful precision, like it’s the only thing that keeps his hands steady. he moves through domestic life with an intensity most people reserve for work, it’s the only way he knows how to keep the chaos out of his head.

𝓔 = ending (if they had to break up, how would they handle it emotionally and practically?)

he wouldn’t do it lightly. endings are catastrophic in his mind, every word, look, and small movement is dissected afterward until it burns in his memory. if he’s pushed to the edge, if the sense of betrayal or fear becomes too much, he might lash out in anger first. but once reality sinks in, he’d spiral into obsessive guilt, replaying every interaction, every misstep, wondering how he could have fixed it. practically, he’d either vanish without a proper goodbye, leaving you with the sudden weight of his absence, or he’d stay until you both cried it through, incapable of leaving without witnessing the fallout of his actions. the aftermath would linger, he’d check on you from afar, still wanting to know you’re safe, still entangled in your life even if he can’t admit it.

𝓕 = family (do they want a family? kids?)

his idea of family is intense. if there were a child, he’d hover constantly, learning every routine, habit, preference, anxious about doing everything perfectly yet determined to be there for every moment. he’d be protective to the point of tense over-management, watching interactions, checking safety obsessively, and struggling to give space. he’d worry constantly, sometimes overthink minor things, but he’d also be deeply attentive, noticing small moods, changes in behavior, wanting to understand and respond. if parenthood wasn’t part of the plan he’d accept it, no matter what there’s always a longing for total devotion from you that sees you as his world. in either scenario, he’s capable of care. he wants you to be happy, and is willing to settle for either.

𝓖 = gentle (how soft are they physically and emotionally? how careful are they with people’s feelings?)

he’s not gentle by nature, he’s controlled. he knows exactly how much pressure to use, how to land a hit, how to make pain look like an accident. that same control is what makes his gentleness with you so startling. he handles you like you’re breakable, like one wrong touch might undo everything he’s built around you. his voice softens in a way it never does for anyone else, movements slowing down as if he’s forcing his whole body to remember this is you. with other people, he’s indifferent at best, cruel at worst; he can manipulate, exploit, even smile while someone’s falling apart if it gets him what he wants. but with you, never. every touch is measured. he’s the kind of gentle that feels like worship, you’re the only person he believes deserves softness.

𝓗 = hugs (do they like hugs? how do they hug, and how often do they give them?)

he’s always looking for a reason to wrap you up. even if it’s just passing by in the kitchen or sitting on the couch, he’ll pull you close, arms tight around you like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. there’s weight behind his hugs, a protective intensity that makes you feel anchored. he’s constantly aware of your reactions, adjusting the pressure if he thinks he’s too tight or holding just enough to remind you he’s there. he’ll linger, resting his head on yours or against your shoulder, and sometimes he doesn’t even let go when you try to step away, watching to make sure you’re okay. he craves the closeness as much as he wants to give it, and if he notices you’re tense or upset, he’ll hug you tighter, until he’s convinced you feel safe.

𝓘 = i love you (how soon and how often do they say it? do they mean it seriously or casually?)

he doesn’t say it right away, he doesn’t even let himself think it for a long time. it’s too big, too final, too exposing. but once it slips past his defenses, once he realizes that everything he does, every thought he has, every breath he takes somehow circles back to you, there’s no putting it away again. when he finally says i love you, it’s not casual, its like a confession he’s been holding in for years. after that, he can’t stop. the words come out, muttered into your hair, your neck, against your fingers when he’s holding your hand, for himself as much as for you. when you say it back, his whole body stills. he listens like it’s proof you’re still his, that you still mean it, that he’s not imagining this whole thing.

𝓙 = jealousy (how easily do they get jealous? how do they act when jealous?)

it doesn’t take much; a glance that lasts too long, a name that comes up one too many times, a laugh that isn’t meant for him. he’ll go quiet first, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight enough to ache. the anger isn’t just at the other person, it’s at the idea of sharing you, of someone else getting to see even a fraction of what he sees. it festers, and depending on how deep it digs, he can get dangerous with it, manipulative, obsessive, cutting people out of your orbit before you even realize he’s doing it. if it ever reaches the point where he thinks someone’s a real threat, his restraint frays completely, and that’s when it turns dark, the quickest and easiest solution turning to murder. he’ll want reassurance. he’ll need you to touch him, to tell him it’s fine, that he’s the only one.

𝓚 = kisses (what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss and be kissed?)

his kisses start out restrained, careful, testing, like he’s afraid he’ll do it wrong, but it doesn’t take long for him to get addicted to the way you taste, the way you breathe against his mouth. he kisses like someone who’s waited his whole life to be allowed this close. his favorite place to kiss is your neck, not just because of the sensitivity there, but because it’s where he can see what he’s done, the bruises and red marks that say mine without words. he never admits how much that satisfies him, but you can feel it in the way he pulls back just to look at them. he loves when you hold his face and pepper kisses all over his skin. when you start pressing light, rapid-fire kisses over his face, his nose, his eyelids, his temple, his mouth, he shuts down in the best way: eyes fluttering closed, breath stuttering like his brain can’t handle that much affection at once. he ends up clutching you tighter, overwhelmed, his mouth still chasing yours like he can’t bear for it to stop.

𝓛 = lying (how good are they at lying? do they lie to you, and how can you tell?)

exceptional at lying but he hates doing it to you. his tells are microscopic, invisible to anyone else: the way his jaw tightens, the delay before he answers, how he’ll deflect with a question to steer you off course. most of the time, his lies aren’t meant to deceive you maliciously, they’re protective, desperate, spun out of fear that you’ll see too much of what’s wrong in him and leave. “i’m fine,” he’ll say, voice too even, when you can tell he hasn’t slept, or that he’s spiraling again. sometimes he’ll omit things rather than outright lie, like the details of a bad night or what he did when someone crossed a line with you. if you call him out he’ll crumble quick, eyes flickering down, shoulders tightening, that almost childlike panic surfacing because the thought of you not trusting him terrifies him.

𝓜 = mornings (what are they like when they wake up? slow, chirpy, groggy, or chaotic?)

mornings with him are ritualistic, measured down to the second. he wakes before the alarm, always does, and breathes in deep like he’s steadying himself for the day. the bed barely creases when he slips out, movements so precise it’s like he’s trying not to disturb the air itself. the shower runs for exactly the same number of minutes, the coffee brewed to the same strength, breakfast plated just right. and then there’s you, the only variable he allows. he always circles back, leans down to press a kiss to your temple or your lips, depending on how awake you are. same time, same softness, every day. if you ever broke his routine, pulled him back into bed, made him late, he’d grumble and act thrown off, but secretly, he’d spend the whole day a little dazed, a little high on the fact that you could undo his precision that easily.

𝓝 = nights (how do they spend their evenings with you? bedtime routines, night talks, night habits?)

he doesn’t like deviation, not from himself, not from you. the lights dim at the same time, the shower runs at the same temperature, the sheets are always pulled tight before you climb in. he brushes his teeth when you do, folds his clothes in the same order, waits for you to crawl into bed before settling beside you. if you forget or get distracted, he doesn’t scold, just gently steers you back. once you’re both in bed, everything slows. his arm draped around you, thumb tracing the same small pattern on your hip until you drift. he can’t fall asleep until you do; he listens for the shift in your breathing, that soft exhale that means you’re gone. only then does he let go enough to rest, because his night isn’t over until yours is.

𝓞 = openness (how much do they reveal about themselves? do they open up quickly or in pieces?)

he doesn’t open up easily because so much of what’s inside him feels messy, shameful, and unlovable. when he does start talking about himself, it happens in pieces. a casual story about his childhood that sounds rehearsed, a passing mention of a scar that he instantly regrets saying out loud. he’ll dodge direct questions, joke his way out, change the subject to you instead, he’d always rather know everything about you. but once you’ve earned his trust, once he starts believing you won’t flinch at the uglier parts, he’ll unravel more. when you don’t push and just listen that’s when he lets himself say the darker things.

𝓟 = patience (how easily do they get irritated or upset? how do they show it?)

his patience is paper-thin, and most of the time he doesn’t even realize how close he is to snapping until he already has. it’s not always anger, sometimes it’s that twitchy, restless agitation that builds behind his ribs and makes him pace or pick at his skin or grind his teeth. he tries to keep control, but small frustrations stack fast in his head until it feels unbearable. if something throws off his routine, if people don’t listen, if you pull away when he needs you close, it unravels him. he’ll go silent for a while, trying to regulate, but you can feel the tension radiating off him. he’s trying to be patient, he just hasn’t quite learned how to exist without the world constantly pressing on his nerves. there will be moments when his anger controls his actions.

𝓠 = quirks (unique habits, little oddities, or distinctive mannerisms that make them them?)

he lines things up obsessively: pens, utensils, your shoes by the door. everything has to be at a precise angle, like the world only makes sense if it’s symmetrical. sometimes, he’ll go quiet mid-conversation just to stare at you, tracking your micro-expressions, the twitch of your mouth, the way your eyes move. he mimics your gestures without realizing, the way you cross your arms, the tilt of your head, your favorite phrases. once, you caught him stirring his coffee the exact way you do, and he blinked, confused, like he didn’t even know he’d learned it.

𝓡 = remembering (how well do they recall details about you? what’s their favorite memory of you?)

he remembers everything, down to the smallest, most impossible details. once he learns something about you, it stays permanently. every piece of you lives in his head. you don’t have to remind him of anything; he’s already memorized it, catalogued it, replayed it a hundred times over. his memory is selective that way, he forgets whole days if they don’t have you in them, but he could quote what you said on the first night you met word for word. his favorite memory, the one that replays the loudest, is the first time you told him you loved him. he didn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. he still replays it when he’s alone, the exact pitch of your voice, the warmth that spread through him like he was finally allowed to exist for something good.

𝓢 = security (how protective are they of you physically, emotionally, or socially?)

extremely possessive. every sound, glance, and stranger becomes a potential threat the second you’re in the room. it’s not even conscious; his body reacts before his mind catches up. if someone raises their voice near you, he’s stepping in. if someone looks at you too long, he’s pulling you behind him. he doesn’t trust the world to treat you right, so he takes it upon himself to do it for you, screens your messages, insists on walking you everywhere, memorizes the layout of every place you go together so he knows the exits. emotionally, it’s worse. the idea of you being hurt or doubting yourself makes him physically sick, and he’ll do anything to pull you back to him, even if that means isolating you from whatever (or whoever) made you feel that way. in his mind the only place you’re truly safe is in his arms, and he’ll destroy anything that tries to prove him wrong.

𝓣 = trust (how easily do they trust others? do they test loyalty or just believe instantly?)

trust doesn’t come easy with him. everyone starts as a potential threat. but once you break through that wall, once he decides you’re safe, it’s over, he gives you everything. he won’t question you, won’t double-check, won’t listen when others warn him. you become the one fixed point in his world, and he’ll believe whatever comes from your mouth. it’s not that he’s naïve, it’s that he needs to believe in you. testing loyalty doesn’t even cross his mind once he’s attached; he’s all in, no halfway. when he trusts, he does it so completely that betrayal doesn’t just hurt him, it breaks him apart.

𝓤 = unflattering habits (what are some bad habits, annoying traits, or pet peeves they have?)

he’s impossible to shake. the kind of clingy that doesn’t even register as wrong to him, he needs to be near you. if you pull away, even for something small like closing a door between you or saying you’re tired, he spirals instantly. his mind fills in the blanks with rejection, with loss, with you deciding he’s not enough. he’ll linger outside the room, hover, ask if he did something wrong in that wounded tone that’s half guilt trip, half plea. every time you want an inch of space, he takes it like a mile-wide rejection. privacy doesn’t really exist with him, he checks in constantly, hovers over your shoulder, insists on helping with things you don’t need help with because being needed helps him. it’s suffocating, the way he turns care into control, love into dependency. he just wants to keep you close, to make sure you never have to want anyone else, because the thought of you doing anything without him twists something in his chest that he doesn’t know how to live with.

𝓥 = vanity (how concerned are they with their appearance, style, or image?)

he never used to care much about appearances, but somewhere along the way it started to matter. you started to matter. now he notices the things you seem to like, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his jaw freshly shaved, the specific cologne that clings when you hug him. he starts trying without admitting that he is: struggling to pick a shirt, fixing his hair, changing his aftershave because you mentioned liking something with cedar once. he checks his reflection more than he used to and runs a hand through his hair before seeing you. he doesn’t care what anyone else thinks, he just needs you to look at him like he’s something worth keeping.

𝓦 = weird (quirky behaviors or odd little things they do that make them unique?)

out of nowhere he’ll make an animal sound in the middle of talking or sitting with you. it’s just him noticing something about your mood and deciding, without thinking, that a dumb noise might break the tension. then he sits there, deadpan, watching to see if you react. it’s the kind of thing that makes you laugh in spite of yourself, because it’s absurd and random and completely unselfconscious, this is how he connects.

𝓧 = xtra (fun fact? something unique or specific about them)

he collects things without realizing he’s doing it, objects that remind him of you. a bottle cap from a drink you shared, a movie stub, the corner of a receipt with your handwriting. he keeps them organized, tucked into drawers or lined neatly on his nightstand. sometimes he doesn’t even remember taking them until he finds one later and gets stuck staring at it.

𝓨 = youthfulness (how playful, spontaneous, or silly are they? do they keep a youthful energy?)

he’s not naturally playful, his seriousness and intensity show, but when it’s just the two of you he can let himself be silly. corny jokes, exaggerated expressions, teasing only you, small, deliberate ways to make you laugh. he doesn’t seek attention or fun elsewhere, but he’ll create little pockets of joy for just the two of you, like he’s crafting a world where only you exist and he can afford to be softer and lighter just for you.

𝓩 = zzz (sleep patterns—how do they sleep, what’s their routine, and do they snore or toss and turn?)

sleep doesn’t come easy to him. his brain doesn’t shut off, replaying every conversation until exhaustion forces him under. even then, it’s light and fitful. he doesn’t snore, but he does twitch sometimes, small jerks that tell you he’s trapped in half-dreams, half-memory. when you’re there, it’s different. he falls asleep faster, his breathing syncing with yours. he needs you close, a hand against your stomach or his forehead tucked to your shoulder, always touching. the nights he wakes up from nightmares, he’ll pull you closer, burying his face against your skin until he steadies again. he’s strict about routine, same bedtime, same order of things, because he needs that control. without you he just lies awake, fingers tracing the dent your body left in the sheets, counting the seconds until morning.

★ a / n : easy post today while i figure out what to work on next … I MISSED Y’ALL TOOOO thank you for the love 🫰🫰

started 10.18.2025. finished 10.18.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

The apartment smelled like her shampoo. It clung to the air, a faint floral ghost threaded between the smell of cleaning supplies and coffee grounds, and Dex could track it the way other people tracked a heartbeat. She’d gotten in the shower ten minutes ago. Ten whole minutes. He sat on the couch, knees bouncing, fingers worrying a seam into his jeans because she’d asked him — asked him — for “just a little space” to finish getting ready.

Space. He hated that word. It opened like a black hole under his ribs every time she said it.

From the living room he could see the pale stripe of light under the bathroom door, and beyond it the shadow of her movement. He catalogued each sound automatically: water shutting off, glass door sliding back, the faint squeak of her foot against tile. She’d be wrapping herself in a towel now, pressing it against skin he could map with his eyes closed. He pictured her exactly the way she’d looked a half-hour earlier, brushing her teeth, sleep still half in her eyes.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the couch until the leather creaked. She’s here. She’s here. She’s here. That mantra kept him steady. She was the first person who hadn’t flinched at the darkness inside him; she’d even reached for it, like it was a wound she could clean instead of a weapon he’d learned to wield. He could still feel the imprint of her nails at the base of his neck from where she’d tugged him down to kiss her before disappearing into the bathroom.

Dex’ eyes flicked to her phone on the counter. He’d already memorized her schedule, the addresses of every place she went, the timing of every commute. The phone’s lock screen glowed once and dimmed again. Messages. He hated the idea of her attention drifting outward. His heart rate went jagged just imagining it.

The front door waited across the room, a slim vertical of brass and steel. It looked like a threat. When she walked through it she belonged to the world again, all the strangers, all the noise, the unknown angles of danger he couldn’t predict. His breath came thin. She has to stay. Just stay. He rubbed a palm over his face, nails grazing his scalp, grounding himself with the pressure.

Water off. A pause. Towel sliding over skin. He could hear it. His pupils blew wide just listening. The space between them stretched. He rose before he even thought about it, pacing two steps toward the hallway. Bare feet on hardwood. Her scent sharper now, steam carrying it out of the bathroom crack by crack. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, eyes fixed on the door. The need for her, the pull, wasn’t romantic anymore, not in the simple sense. It was survival, an animal compulsion to keep the only person who’d ever wanted him exactly where she was.

His knuckles hovered an inch from the bathroom door. Just hovering. He could feel the warmth radiating through the wood, like her presence seeped outward with the steam. His skin prickled. Every second without her felt like a paper cut running deeper and deeper, the sting so small and constant it rewired his nerves. He shifted his weight, shoulder grazing the doorframe.

She’d said something about an event tonight. An event, a word so meaningless but it tore at his chest like claws. People. Cameras. Light. A night where her smile would be thrown across a room he couldn’t lock. The thought made his jaw clench so hard he didn’t even realize he was biting his cheek until after the blood started to gush.

“Hey…” he called, voice pitched like a question but heavy underneath. “You okay in there?”

Her voice came back muffled through the door: “I’m fine! Just getting ready.”

Fine. Getting ready. Dex rubbed a hand down his face until his palm dragged over the stubble on his jaw, nails biting his neck. His pupils were still blown, breathing short. She was fine. But he wasn’t.

Inside his skull it was a loop — She’s putting on makeup. She’s slipping into a dress. She’s walking into a room full of eyes that aren’t mine. Every detail turned into a splinter. He tried to breathe it out but it only curled tighter. He hated the way his mind ran ahead of itself like this; hated the way every second away from her dragged him back to the same cold corridors he’d lived in before she existed. Before she’d put her hands on him and said his name like it belonged somewhere other than a police file.

He leaned his forehead against the doorframe. Closed his eyes. He could picture her drying her hair, looking at her own face in the mirror, maybe humming something soft he couldn’t hear. He wanted to push the door open, slide behind her, wrap his arms around her waist and lock his fingers until she couldn’t move. The image burned in his mind.

“You’re taking a while. . .” A laugh followed, brittle at the edges, like it was supposed to be a joke but it wasn’t.

She’d told him once she liked how intense he was. Liked how focused. He clung to that memory now, because it was the only proof he had that she hadn’t grown tired of it yet. That she wouldn’t.

Another pause. More muffled movement. The soft thud of something set on the counter. Dex’ head tipped back against the wall. He stared at the ceiling, jaw locked, hands balled. The event. She’d have to leave soon, and the city would touch her, and strangers would see the soft parts of her she kept only for him. He could feel the night pulling her out of his hands already and his heart thumped in his ribs.

The seconds stretched so thin they hummed in his teeth. Dex pressed his palm to the wall, forehead still tipped back, every muscle wound. He hated doors. Hated the slice of wood and brass that could shut him out. It didn’t matter if it was a bedroom or a bathroom; a door meant she was on the other side and he wasn’t. The lock clicked once when she’d gone in. He took it like a knife between the ribs.

She never meant it that way, he knew that, but his mind chewed it anyway: she wants space, she wants to be without you, she’s shutting you out. It felt personal, every time. He wanted to be in the warm steam with her, to hold her and watch her face while she got ready. He always wanted to be where she was, even if it was just sitting on the edge of the tub while she brushed her teeth, just breathing the same air. Without it the silence started crawling under his skin.

His hand drifted toward the door, almost knocking. He stared at the tiny flecks in the paint, the way the steam bled through the crack, the faint perfume of her hair products slipping out first. He was seconds from pounding on the wood. Seconds from tearing it open just to see her.

Inside he could hear the soft friction of fabric sliding over skin. She was dressing. The sound dragged a hot wire down his spine. He imagined the dress; imagined her stepping into it, smoothing it over her hips, pulling it into place. All the parts of her the world would see tonight. All the parts that had been his to trace with fingertips now stitched into public fabric.

“Open the door…” he whispered under his breath, not loud enough for her to hear. His thumb pressed to the frame like it might leave a print. Open the door. Open the door. Open the door.

And then, the latch clicked. The hinges moved. A blade of light widened, steam unfurling into the hallway. She stepped out.

For a second Dex forgot to breathe. The hallway’s glow caught on the damp ends of her hair, the shimmer of lotion still not fully absorbed into her skin. The dress she’d chosen clung in places that made his palms ache to touch. Her makeup was soft but deliberate, a line at the corner of her eyes making her look almost unreal. The chain at her throat trembled as she adjusted her clutch.

“You…” he said before he’d even formed the words. “You look…” The rest broke off into a dry swallow. “…beautiful.”

He couldn’t stop staring. His gaze dragged up and down, memorizing every inch. His hands twitched at his sides. The thought bloomed anyway, sour and metallic: other people are going to see this. Other eyes. Other hands reaching out. The city will touch her. The city will stain her. He shifted his weight, still leaning against the wall as she brushed past to grab her shoes.

Why does she want to go out there? Why does she need them when she has me?

Another flicker of an image: him stepping in front of the door, pressing his palm against the frame, saying no. Just stay. Just stay with me.

He swallowed the impulse but it sat behind his teeth, hot as a match-head.

“You’re sure you have to go?” he asked, too calm to be casual. His eyes followed the slope of her shoulders, the place where the dress dipped at the back. The hall light struck his face at an angle, leaving one eye in shadow and one lit.

She didn’t even look up at first, she was bent over in front of a mirror, sliding an earring into place. “I promised Mia,” she said, soft but definite. “I have to go.”

Promised. Have to. Dex’s chest went tight on each word like it was a hook being reeled in. Promised someone else. Have to for someone else. But what about me? He watched her slide the second earring in, the glint of metal against her skin.

He stepped up behind her before he even knew he was moving, hands sliding to her hips, fingers spreading across the fabric of her dress like he had to stake a claim on it. His palms were hot; he could feel her heat through the thin material. He bowed his head until his breath caught against the side of her neck. “Can’t I come with you?” It came out almost like a plea. “I’ll stay quiet, I’ll sit in the corner.”

She shifted slightly, the smallest lean back into him, but kept her eyes on the mirror. “You know if I could take you, I would. This isn’t— it’s not that kind of thing.” She reached to touch his wrist, a small grounding gesture, as if she could feel him winding tight.

His jaw clenched. He looked at their reflection together, his shadow rising behind her. She was so beautiful it almost hurt. The dress wasn’t for him. The hair wasn’t for him. The little gloss at the corner of her mouth — not for him. Then who? Who gets to see this? Who gets to breathe the same air as her when she looks like this?

His hands slid higher, palms grazing the dip of her waist, then lower again, thumbs circling. His fingers were restless; they needed an anchor. He bent and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, once, then again, harder. The smell of her skin under the perfume steadied him for a heartbeat. He kissed a line upward, to the soft place just below her ear.

He closed his eyes, nuzzling into her hair. Is this what normal boyfriends do? Do they stand here trembling like this, ready to rip the city apart just to keep her home? His thumb stroked the hollow at the base of her throat.

She was picking up her clutch now, trying to keep her hands steady while he covered her. “Dex,” she spoke again, softer. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

A few hours. Alone. Anything can happen. People staring. Touching. Her laughing at something someone says. He tightened his arms, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. “You don’t have to go,” he murmured against her skin. “Stay. Tell her you’re sick. Tell her anything. Don’t go.”

He knew he was too close, too much, but the thought of stepping back was like opening an airlock. He shifted his weight, turning her slightly so he could kiss her collarbone, then her jaw. His hands slid up her sides, over her ribs, skimming the edges of the dress as if to peel it away. If I keep touching her, maybe she’ll forget. Maybe she’ll stay.

Inside his skull, the questions ricocheted: Why can’t she just take me with her? Why does she need them at all? Why isn’t this enough? What if she comes back changed? What if she doesn’t come back?

His mouth moved almost on its own, following the scent of her perfume, the small tremor at the base of her throat. He hadn’t meant to press so hard, hadn’t meant to linger, just to touch, to taste, to leave a breadcrumb of himself so she’d remember him while she was gone. But his focus narrowed to the sound of her breathing, the pulse he could feel beneath his lips. Each kiss became slower, warmer, heavier, until a sharp edge of hunger bled through the softness.

A startled push on his chest broke the trance. Her voice was sharp—“Dex!”—and she ducked toward the mirror. He blinked, disoriented, only then noticing the hickey blooming on her skin: deep wine-dark against the pale slope of her neck. His hands hovered at his sides, caught between apology and want.

She was already dabbing at it with makeup, muttering under her breath. “I just got ready, Dex. Seriously.” Each stroke of the brush was fast, almost angry. Watching her try to erase him from her skin sent a sting through his chest that felt both humiliating and thrilling. It was proof of how much space he took up, and yet she was scrubbing it away.

He shifted his weight, jaw working, eyes tracking her reflection. In his head the thoughts flared up and curled back in on themselves: Did she hate that I did it? Why is she hiding me? Why isn’t she proud? At least now they’ll know she’s taken.

She caught his gaze in the mirror and sighed. “You can still see it a little. Great.” The faint bruise was stubborn under the layers of foundation, a ghostly outline of his mouth. She pressed another dab of powder, frustrated.

Dex’ hands clenched against his thighs; the shame burned hot, but under it coiled a grim satisfaction. A piece of him would still be visible out there, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. He swallowed and tried to steady his voice. “I didn’t mean to…” he started, but the words tangled.

Because hadn’t he? At least a little? Hadn’t the thought, mine, been curling at the edges of his mind the whole time?

She moved away from him without another word, a small whip of air rising as her dress brushed past his knees. The scent of her perfume trailed behind her like a ribbon he couldn’t grab. Dex stood in the hallway, fingers flexing at his sides, watching her retreat. Every step she took toward the bedroom felt like a subtraction, one more foot of space he couldn’t cross, one more second slipping through his grip.

She was silent now, working with quick, irritated motions at the vanity, fixing the line of her lipstick, tucking a stray curl back into place. He could see her shoulders rise and fall, steady, like she was forcing herself to breathe evenly. He tried to swallow the acid bloom of shame in his chest, but all he could taste was copper. His eyes flicked to the faint mark at her neck, still visible under makeup, a secret dark star beneath the powder.

Her bag thumped softly against the dresser as she lifted it. Phone. Keys. Lip gloss. Small click of a compact snapping shut. She didn’t look at him. She was already somewhere else, mentally at the event. She started toward the door, heels muted against the rug. His body moved before he even registered it, instinct overtaking the thoughts. Two steps forward, then another. He planted himself in front of the door, bracing a palm flat against the frame, the other resting lightly on the knob.

“Don’t go.” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended, but steady in a way that made his own stomach tighten. His pupils swallowed the green of his irises until his eyes looked black. He wasn’t touching her yet, just standing there, but every nerve in his body leaned toward her like iron filings to a magnet.

She stopped a foot away, her bag still dangling from her hand. Her reflection wavered in the mirror across the hall: her, poised, beautiful, irritated; him, wide-shouldered, blocking the exit like a sentinel. For a moment it looked like a painting.

Dex stared at her, drinking in every detail, the sweep of her eyeliner, the slope of her throat, the way the dress hugged her ribs. The longer he looked, the less the room felt real. Everything blurred into that one thought curling under his ribs like a hook: mine. The word pulsed through him with each heartbeat, sweet and sour.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly on the frame. “Just… don’t,” came softer now, almost a plea. In his head the words were sharper, louder, desperate: stay here, stay here, stay here. Because if she walked out, she’d be out in the city, a world that had never been kind to him, a world he didn’t trust with anything fragile. He realized belatedly he was holding his breath waiting for her to speak, standing between her and the door like it was the only thing keeping the night at bay.

Her voice reached him first, soft as a breath but carrying a weight that cut through his skin.

“I can’t, baby. I’m sorry.”

The word baby did something dangerous inside him. It landed like a hand on the back of his neck, gentle but electrifying, and he felt his chest tighten as if she’d just wrapped a cord around it and pulled. She’d called him baby. That meant she still loved him. Didn’t it? Then why was she leaving?

Dex blinked once, twice, everything became unbearably vivid. She was still standing there, bag in hand, lips soft, hair shining, but to him she was already turning away. “What did I do?” His voice cracked without warning. He didn’t remember deciding to speak. It just slipped out. “Why are you leaving me? I didn’t— I didn’t screw up again, did I?” His fingers pressed harder into the doorframe until the wood creaked under his grip.

She shook her head, a small, tired movement. “You didn’t do anything, Dex. I promised my friend. It’s just a couple hours.”

A couple hours. Two hours where she’d be gone. Two hours where she’d be somewhere he couldn’t follow, where faces he didn’t know could lean close, smile at her, drink her in. Two hours without her scent in the room, without her warmth on the mattress, without her heartbeat close enough to lull him out of his own head.

“You’re not gonna come back.” His mouth moved before he could stop it. The words sounded childish, ugly, but they tumbled out anyway. “You’ll go out there, you’ll forget me. People are gonna see you, touch you, and you’ll…” He trailed off, jaw trembling. “You’ll realize you don’t need me. That’s what’s gonna happen, isn’t it?”

She stepped closer, her hand brushing his forearm. “Look at me.” Her voice stayed gentle, but there was a firmness to it. “I’m coming back. I always come back. You know that.”

Every inch of him wanted to believe it. But belief didn’t stand a chance against the pounding in his ribs. The space between her words and his fear was a canyon he couldn’t cross. “Then stay now,” His head tilted a fraction, like a plea he couldn’t articulate. “Just come back to bed. We can shut the curtains, order food, whatever you want. Just stay.”

Her fingers stroked down his arm, trying to soothe him, but even that touch was a knife. Because it felt like goodbye. “Dex,” she said softly. “I have to go.”

He caught her wrist without thinking, not hard, but enough to feel her pulse against his palm. “Why?” His voice trembled now, the anger fluctuating. “You said I was enough. You said—” He stopped, swallowing hard, ashamed of the way his throat burned.

She slid her other hand over his, gently trying to pry herself free. “You are enough. This isn’t about you. Let me go.”

Dex could taste panic. Every nerve was screaming at him to hold on tighter, to press her back against the wall, to keep her here just a little longer until the outside world forgot she existed. If she stays, she’s still mine. If she goes, the city takes her. The panic tipped, just enough, and spilled into anger. It wasn’t the clean kind of anger that could be directed outward, it was the jagged, self-splintering kind, born from fear, the kind that felt like betrayal even when he knew it wasn’t.

He stayed where he was, braced like a barricade, shoulders squared into the doorframe. His breathing came fast enough now that it misted the air between them, and his palms pressed flat against the wood as though he could fuse himself into it. The panic had settled into his bones, vibrating there, shaking every muscle in microscopic tremors. He stared at her, at the bag on her arm, at the tiny shift of her weight toward the door.

“I need you,” he said, the words raw and uneven. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you walk out. You don’t get it. You’re the only thing. The only thing.” His hands came up, fingers hovering inches from her arms, afraid to grab, desperate to grab. “Why are you leaving me? Why would you even risk it? What if you don’t come back?” His voice broke on the last word; his eyes darted, searching her face for an answer that didn’t exist.

She tried to keep her voice calm, tried to keep her eyes soft. “I told you I’d be back tonight. You know I would never leave you.”

He shook his head once, like he could fling the thought out. “They’ll look at you. They’ll touch you. You’ll smile at them.” His throat locked, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. “You’re supposed to smile for me.”

Her hand hovered toward his chest but then drew back, fingers trembling. She could see it now, the way his shoulders shook under his shirt, the shine in his eyes that wasn’t quite tears but could be. She knew what this looked like: the spiral, the slope he slipped down sometimes when he thought he was being left.

“Honey,” she said carefully, “I know this feels bad. But you’re safe. You’re okay. I’m not leaving you forever. It’s just a friend.”

He shook his head again, more violently this time. “No. I need you. I can’t—” He bit the inside of his cheek until it went coppery, trying to quiet the tremor in his voice. “I can’t be here alone. Please. Stay. Stay.”

She closed her eyes, exhaled through her nose, weighing her options. She’d promised someone she’d go. She’d also seen this before, seen what it did to him when he tipped into this place and no one was there to anchor him back out. If she left him like this… would he even still be here when she came back?

Her bag slid off her shoulder, hitting the floor with a muted thump. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

For a heartbeat he didn’t seem to understand, the words taking too long to reach him. Then his shoulders sagged, some invisible thing snapping inside him. He reached out and touched her face, eyes still frantic. “Yeah?” he asked, because he had to make sure.

“Yeah,” she said again, more firmly now. “I’ll stay.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her cheeks in his palms as though she were something breakable. His whole body felt electric and hollow at once. Relief, shame, need — it all ran together until it left him dizzy. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over, almost a chant. “Thank you. Thank you.”

His mouth found hers before the second “thank you” was fully out. At first it was almost shy, a brush, a tremor, but then it deepened, the kind of kiss that felt less like an act and more like an instinct. He needed the taste of her, the heat of her lips, the press of her breath breaking against his own. The kiss became a tether; every brush of her mouth against his was another inch of rope wrapped around him, keeping him from floating out of his own skull.

She kissed back, gentle but steady, fingers sliding up into his hair. Her warmth under his hands was the only thing he could recognize with certainty. Lips, jawline, pulse, he mapped them like a blind man memorizing a room. He pulled back only enough to breathe, eyes wide and glassy, then kissed her again, slower this time but more desperate. He took it all in like a starving animal and still it wasn’t enough. He dragged his palms down her arms, over her hips, feeling each contour like proof she still existed.

“Come on,” he murmured finally, forehead against hers. “Come back to bed.” His thumbs swept over her jaw as if trying to erase any thought but him.

She hesitated, still half-turned toward the bathroom. “I need to take my makeup off first,” she said softly, fingers brushing his.

He nodded too quickly, eyes still on her mouth. “Okay. Yeah. Just— I’ll come with you.”

She moved toward the bathroom and he moved with her, like her shadow given muscle and breath. His hands found her again before they’d even reached the sink, sliding over her waist, settling against her stomach, palms flat against the soft fabric of her dress. He pressed in behind her, his chest a solid wall to her back, head tilting down until his forehead rested between her shoulder blades.

In the mirror she could see them both: her reaching for a washcloth, him wrapped around her like a snake. His fingers moved absently at her sides, tracing slow circles as though they were counting her breaths. He buried his face into the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent where her perfume was strongest. Inside his head everything narrowed to sensation: the silk of her hair brushing his cheek, the warmth under his hands, the pulse in her throat against his lips. He pressed a kiss there, then another, unable to stop himself, panic still in his ribs but muted now by her skin.

She leaned a little into him even as she wiped away her makeup, used to this pattern now, the way his need for grounding sometimes crested into clinging. “I’m right here.”

He tightened his arms, chin hooked over her shoulder, eyes fixed on her reflection. She kept moving, cotton pad to eye, rinse, repeat, and he stayed still, carved around her like parentheses. He didn’t even notice how tightly he was holding on until his fingertips started to tingle, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

She peeled the last traces of makeup from her face, dropped the cotton pad in the sink, and patted her cheeks dry. Dex didn’t move until she did, then he fell into step behind her like he was tethered. She crossed the threshold into their bedroom and went for the closet. He was already there when she opened the door, leaning against the frame, taking up all the space. He didn’t even pretend to look away; his gaze moved with her hands, her shoulders, every small gesture.

She reached behind her to undo the zipper. Fabric whispered down her sides and pooled at her feet. She pulled a loose, soft T-shirt from a hanger and a pair of worn sleep shorts from the drawer. The cotton looked almost weightless against her freshly cleaned skin. She slipped them on without hurrying, combing her fingers through her hair once, trying to find a sense of normality in the ritual.

She grabbed her phone to tap out a message — I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can’t make it tonight. — the tiny whoosh of the message sending sounded like a door shutting.

Before she could even lower the phone, Dex’ fingers hooked around her wrist and gave a gentle, insistent tug. Not rough, but eager, needy, a current running from his hand into hers. She glanced up at him, already knowing, and he was looking at her with that blown-out gaze, like he’d been underwater and only she could teach him to breathe. “Come lay down,” He backed toward the bed, pulling her with him. The duvet was still rumpled from earlier; the sheets smelled like them both. He sat, then slid back until he was stretched out, tugging her down with him until her knees hit the mattress and she toppled into his arms.

He wrapped himself around her instantly. One arm banded across her waist, the other across her shoulders, his face pressed to the side of her neck. His legs tangled with hers, hooking at the ankles. His breath shuddered once, then slowed, syncing to hers like a metronome finding its rhythm. Her phone slipped from her hand onto the blanket; she let it.

His hands flattened against her ribs. He counted the breaths.

For a heartbeat he could almost believe it was permanent, that if he just held her still enough, the night couldn’t find her, the world couldn’t call her back.

He stayed there, eyes open, telling himself again and again: Right now she’s here. Right now she’s here. Right now she’s here.

started 9.24.2025. finished 9.24.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

If you’re going out without him (which he, uh. doesn’t love) he prefers to drop you off and pick you up. It minimizes the time you spend away from him and gives him an excuse to know exactly where you are and exactly when he’ll see you again. It also gives him an excuse to be texting and calling you asking when you want him to come pick you up. Are you sure you don’t want him to come early? It’s late and you sound kind of tired. No, he doesn’t mind at all, ha ha, just let him come get you and you can come back to his place and curl up under the blankets with him and read until bed. Please. :)

Bed time for him is no later than 11 pm, by the way. If he’s waking up at 7 he wants a solid 8 hours of sleep, and he wants you under the blankets with him. If you’re late getting into bed with him he’ll sort of hover around you until you get the hint.

When you’re sleeping together he will always be touching you in some way. Even if you’re not cuddled up against each other he wants a hand on your waist, his forehead tucked into your shoulder, feet touching under the sheets, just something. And you cannot escape it. If you roll over in your sleep he’s following you across the bed, and if you move away from him on purpose he will look at you with those sad wet puppy eyes. It genuinely hurts his feelings.

Just go ahead and sign up for a Life360 account with him. Or any other location sharing app. It will greatly ease his anxiety and he would just find another way to keep tabs on you anyway. Sometimes he keeps the app open next to him while he’s preoccupied with other things, just glancing at your location on the map every so often, even if he already knows where you are.

You’ll have to establish strong boundaries around your private life, because he feels like you should have absolutely no secrets from him. Like, what do you mean he can’t read your diary? Why did you leave the room to take that call with your friend? You’re texting her about a breakup she’s going through and he wants to be over your shoulder reading all of it. No sense of privacy.

Please note that this does not apply to him lmao, there are many things about himself and his past that he would prefer you don’t know about. He worries that you would think less of him or leave him if you found out about some of the more violent things he’s done. He desperately wants you to think highly of him, but at the same time he wants someone to see every ugly part of him and love him anyway. He doesn’t know how to manage these two feelings in the beginning, and will probably try to hide those uglier parts of himself until he inevitably makes a mistake and ends up confessing everything to you at once. If you stay with him anyway and assure him that it hasn’t scared you off, it will be a huge trust-building moment for him.

Clingy. So clingy. He’s always touching you in some way. A hand on your leg while you’re sitting on the couch. A foot pressed up against yours under the table while you’re at a restaurant. A hand on your back while you’re walking. You tease him about his “separation anxiety”, but you both know it’s true. You go to the bathroom to wash your face and he’s sitting on the tub, watching. He wants to be involved in anything you’re doing, chopping onions in the kitchen, going to the gym, reading quietly on the couch. Anything.

He would be the only significant relationship in your life if he could. He doesn’t like your friends, although he tries to be courteous with them for you. Seeing your attention directed at anyone else makes him anxious and insecure, and he can get moody if he thinks you’re doing too much of it (his threshold for “too much” is very low). Dex doesn’t have friends. You are the only person who really means anything to him, and he feels like he should be the same for you. The two of you against the world.

His fear of abandonment is easily triggered and his mood can flip on a dime. He can get really ugly when his mood takes a turn for the worst, accusing you of not loving him, saying that you’re going to leave him like everyone else has, crying, yelling. He can be manipulative and tends to resort to guilt-tripping. Bringing up how lonely he was before you, how much he needs you, how awful he feels when you do whatever behavior he’s spiraling about this time. He cries a lot. You will need to have strong boundaries and frank conversations about all of this to stand up for yourself.

He is a very self-centered person, by which I mean his own needs are front-and-center of his mind at all times. Dex has not had healthy relationships, romantic, platonic, or familial. For most of his life, if he wasn’t looking out for himself, no one was. Learning to care for another person genuinely and not just for what they can do for him will be a learning experience and a big hurdle in your relationship.

He seems very kind and generous at the beginning of your relationship, but he’s motivated primarily by fear that you’ll leave him or find him unworthy. He’s trying to do what he thinks a partner should and what he thinks you want him to do, but at its core it’s self-serving behavior. He doesn’t know how to care for another person earnestly. He wants to, and he’s trying very hard, but it will take time and patience.

He does not like having his photo taken. The first time you pull out your phone and ask him to take a picture with you, he’s visibly uncomfortable and unsure of what to do with himself, although he does try for your sake. The next week, when he’s at your place and sees the photo printed and stuck to your fridge with a kitschy magnet, he changes his mind. He’ll let you take as many pictures as you want, even if he still looks like he’s grimacing in half of them.

He starts keeping photos of you too, many of them taken without your knowledge. His favorites are the ones of you doing totally mundane things. You, curled up under his sheets. Folding socks on the floor. Brushing your teeth in your bathroom mirror. Sipping on a coffee with your friends while you didn’t know he was watching you through the window. He looks at them when you’re away.

Dex is awkward. His usual behavior is a mask he puts on to try to meet whatever standard is expected of him at the moment. The more time he spends with you, the more you start to see behind the mask. He can be stilted. He makes odd remarks and observations. He has a strange sense of humor. Embarrassment strikes him when he first realizes he’s slipped up, but when you respond with a smile and acceptance it feels like a weight off of his shoulders. He can let down the burden of performing around you.

He can also have a mean sense of humor. He often comes out with things that are shocking or graphic. Someone cuts him off in traffic and he says “this guy should be shot on sight.” The barista is a little short with you and he mimes throwing a quarter through her head when she’s not looking. You’re pretty sure he’s joking. He wants you to laugh and joke with him, for the two of you to be mischievous and playful together. If you can match his humor, he feels even closer to you, like the two of you share a language that no one else is in on.

If you give him a compliment he will remember it forever. You tell him he looks good after a haircut and he’s making sure you see him after every cut from now on. You say he looks good in that quarter-zip and he’s wearing it twice as often. You think black looks best on him? He wears black every day now. He won’t buy a cologne unless you approve of it first.

Dex has never been preoccupied with his looks. At least, not beyond looking professional and appropriate for whatever environment he’s in. He knows he’s good looking, but hearing it never really mattered to him until you were the one saying it. He loves hearing you call him handsome and pretty. He just wants you to look at him and enjoy what you see.

He needs a lot of validation and he’ll ask for it if he’s feeling especially insecure. “Are you mad at me?” “You still like having me around, right?” No matter how many times you reassure him, he can’t quite bring himself to believe it.

Dex loves being loved by you. He loves to hear you say it. Notices every way you show it, no matter how small. Keeps every note you write him, every sweet text, every gift you give him, no matter how insignificant. They’re all proof that you care about him. You’re the only person who ever has.

Once he gets a taste of affection from you he is both starved for it and terrified of it. You made him realize what was missing in his life, how empty and miserable he was without love and touch. The thought of losing it, of losing you, makes him feel like he can’t breathe. The slightest sense that you’re pulling away from him has him clinging even more desperately. He cannot lose you. He doesn’t know if he would survive it.

He gets attached fast. Very fast. One date together and his every thought is consumed by you. A week in and he’s sure you’re the one. He’ll rush into relationship milestones like saying “I love you,” clearing out a drawer in his dresser for you, asking you to move in with him. If you want to take things slower, you’ll have to be very gentle and reassuring when you bring it up, because if he feels like you’re rejecting any part of him he will start to spiral.

He loves it when you get possessive over him. Loves it even more when you show your love for him in strange ways. You text him one evening “I miss you. I want to crawl inside your rib cage and live there,” and he spends the rest of the week thinking about it. Screenshots it and looks at it when you’re apart.

He does not judge you for any of your odd habits or behaviors. In his mind it truly is the two of you against the world. If you fidget a lot, have a weird sense of humor, a strange hobby, an unusual laugh, he takes it all in without any hesitation. He wants to learn every secret and hidden part of you, especially the things you might be embarrassed of or try to keep from others. He wants to know you fully, in a way that no one else does.

He will go through your phone and your diary and anything else you keep private information in. Especially if he feels like you don’t want him seeing it. What are you hiding from him? ___Why would you hide it from him? He needs to know all of it. He does not respect your privacy in the least. If you catch him and bring it up he’ll just get better at hiding it.

Dex doesn’t really have hobbies, but he would love to incorporate you into his routine. You want to start working out? He’ll write up a plan for you and show you how it’s done. Teaching you proper form at the gym, or spotting for you if you already know. Going on runs together, pacing you, pushing you to do your best. He loves doing the most mundane things together like meal planning, grocery shopping, cooking side by side and eating the meals you prepared together. His routine is the foundation of his life and he would deeply appreciate your efforts to fit into it and accommodate it.

Dex is very intelligent. You start picking his brain about the things he’s knowledgeable of, advice about the skills he’s mastered, and it fills him with pride. He’s got experience with the military and the FBI, he stays up to date on current events, he’s obsessive about his fitness and nutrition, and he was a straight A student. He’s got a razor-sharp mind and plenty of expertise, and he loves feeling useful to you and like you see him as someone worthy of respect.

He likes it a little too much when you hurt him. Playfully biting him, squeezing him a little too hard, swatting at him when he’s bothering you, kissing him with too much force. He’s vibrating with the intensity of the feelings it digs up in him. He wants you to do it harder and more often but he’s not sure how to bring it up, so he’ll find ways to bait you into it, like wrapping an arm around your neck to tempt you into sinking your teeth into the muscle. He’ll offer to teach you self-defense so he has an excuse to tell you to hit him. He just wants to be sure you’re doing it right, you know? That you’ve got the technique and the force down. He hopes you don’t notice that he’s just a little too into it.

He doesn’t really get empathy. He tries for you, though. God, does he try. The experience of empathy is a very logical process for him, trying to map out your feelings and reactions in his mind. It can come across as mechanical and detached, but he really is trying to understand you and make you feel better. It will take a lot of trial and error, and you’ll have to be patient with him and offer lots of gentle feedback to help him improve.

He struggles with insomnia. Sometimes the medication helps, sometimes it doesn’t. He lies awake and focuses on your peaceful face, the rise and fall of your chest, the warmth of your body next to him. Sometimes, when you wake up, he’s already awake and watching you. He doesn’t try to hide it.

He tends to make excessive eye-contact with you. On top of his general lack of social skills, it’s just his fixation on you and his need to know your every thought and emotion. He’s constantly trying to gauge your feelings towards him and whether or not he’s done something wrong.

He will watch your favorites shows and movies and read your favorite books to better understand you. Especially if you’re the type to annotate your books. It’s like a window into your mind. (He never marks up his books it does trigger his issue with obsessive neatness to see you do it, but he’ll tolerate it for the sake of reading what you have to say)

He gets emotional when you shower him in affection. You press kisses all over his face, his forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks and chin. Soft and adoring. His eyes are stinging with tears before you’re even done. He didn’t know how starved he was for gentle touch until you gave it to him, and now he craves it. He won’t ask for it with words but he’ll stare at you with big, wet eyes until you get the hint. Nudging your shoulder with his nose. Brushing your fingers with his. He melts when you finally give him what he needs.