You don’t really mind that he’s loud.

One day, you're with him at his friend's house for their birthday party. There's a lot of people here and there. Some hanging out at the pool. Some drinking in the bar area. Some talking on the sides.

He’s in his element—teasing, shouting over music, laughing like the world’s funniest guy is in the room, which he thinks is him. You're seated quietly at the edge of the couch, sipping your drink, half-listening, half-wondering why you're not overwhelmed nor feeling any anxiety.

Then you feel it—his hand slipping into yours. He's all warm, gentle, like he hadn't been wilding out and shouting with his bestfriends just a minute ago.

He leans down, talking with his softened voice he only saves for you. “You doing okay?” He asked softly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

He talked with you for a few moments before standing up again, all recharged by you and shouting back at his friends, talking with them.