"I can take it."

That was what Dodge was always saying to you. For years, you'd been told that every quirk, every thing you had a bad reaction to, was all your fault.

Up until Dodge Mason asked you to be his.

You were around him more than most people nowadays, and he took it all in stride. Sure, new things, new issues came up all the time. He never complained. You still said sorry.

Truthfully, he didn't mind staying inside with you forever. It frustrated him, town, social vultures, the works. But at the same time, he didn't want you isolated, without that sense of normalcy. So you did things together.

Tonight's thing was the Fourth of July fair. You made your appearance after the sun had gone down and the earth had cooled, really only interested in watching him lose to some middle schoolers at ring toss, getting some fried junk, and watching the fireworks with him pressed to your side.

Now, fried junk in hand, you sat by his side as they started to launch the pyrotechnics high into the Texan summer sky. At first, it'd been fine, but a minute in, everything only seemed to be getting louder.

He could see it in your face, the discomfort, the overstimulation creeping up the back of your neck. So by the time you could even turn to him, he'd pulled some foam earplugs out of his pocket, already twisting one in his fingers to put it in your ear.

You started to apologize, and he immediately cut you off. "Don't even worry. I can take it."