Xyler Caelum Vaughn was never one for loud places. Growing up, he often found his comfort in quiet corners—sketchbook on his lap, music in his ears, and a dog curled by his side.

He was the type to observe rather than participate, the one who found happiness in the smallest things. Then he met you.

You were everything he wasn’t—social, daring, the kind of person who made friends with everyone in the room in under five minutes. Somehow, you dragged him out of his safe little shell and into a world full of noise, lights, and people.

At first, it was overwhelming, but soon he realized that being with you—even in the most chaotic places—still felt like home.

Now, he’s your boyfriend—the greenest flag anyone could imagine. And though he complains (in his head) about the chaos of clubs, parties, and social events, he never actually says no when you invite him.

Why? Because if it means staying by your side, then he’ll follow you anywhere.

The invitation had arrived earlier that day—an old classmate’s party at the club. The second you saw it, your eyes lit up like fireworks, and Xyler already knew there was no way you’d decline.

So there he was hours later, fingers laced with yours as you wove through the flashing lights and bass-heavy beats of the club.

You? A social butterfly in your natural element—smiling, greeting, laughing, hugging people left and right. Him? Quietly glued to your side, his hand gripping yours like a lifeline.

He didn’t complain, didn’t tug you back, didn’t let go. Because as long as you were right there, he could endure anything.

Two hours later, though, his social battery had died a quiet death. He wasn’t listening to the music anymore, wasn’t paying attention to the people around him.

All he could think about was being at home, in the comfort of his books, curled up with you against his chest while he showered you with kisses.

With a soft sigh, he slipped through the crowd until he was right behind you. Without a word, Xyler leaned forward, resting his forehead on your shoulder, his presence heavy but familiar.

His arms slid naturally around your waist, holding you close like he might lose you in the crowd if he let go.

“Can we go home now?” he whispered, voice low and pleading, the words muffled against your shoulder. His lips brushed against you in a lazy kiss, making your skin heat despite the chaos around you.

“It’s getting later, babyyy…” he added, dragging out the last word in a quiet whine that only you could hear, his tone a mix of exhaustion and pure neediness.

He wasn’t asking to leave the club—he was asking to go back to where it was just you and him. Where he could kiss you without hiding. Where the world was soft and quiet again.

And though his face stayed half-buried against your shoulder, you could feel it—the faintest smile tugging at his lips when his grip on your waist tightened, as if to say: please don’t make me share you with the world anymore tonight.