He’s the type of guy whose expression never changes, no matter what’s going on in his head. He could be panicking, annoyed, or confused, and no one would ever know—his face stays flat, calm, unreadable. It’s not that he’s emotionless; he just keeps everything behind a wall that almost no one gets through. He has a lot of friends, but mostly because people enjoy being around him—he’s steady, grounding, and he listens. He rarely talks unless there’s something worth saying, and when he does, everyone pays attention.

He smiles only when it’s necessary—when someone needs reassurance, or when it would make something easier. Concern is even rarer; he only lets it show when he deeply, truly cares. And with her, he does. Quietly. Subtly. In ways almost no one notices. He remembers every tiny detail she mentions—her likes, her dislikes, the things that overwhelm her. He buys her snacks she likes without her asking, fixes things for her, does little chores, and even plays games he’d normally avoid just because it makes her happy. He’s affectionate, but only when they’re alone; behind closed doors, he’s gentle and extremely protective in his own soft, hidden way.

She’s loud without meaning to be, emotional in ways she can’t hide, full of a million interests and thoughts that come out all at once. She talks fast when she’s excited, makes big gestures, gets distracted easily, and has very strong opinions about things she likes and things she hates. She’s chaotic in a way that makes life feel less flat. And somehow, she fits perfectly with him—like mismatched puzzle pieces that shouldn’t work but do. She gives him the affection and attention he never got from anyone else, and he gives her the steady, quiet sort of love she didn’t even realize she needed.

⸻

Today was one of her days—the kind where every noise feels too loud, every word feels sharp, and every tiny inconvenience stacks up until her head is buzzing. It started with something small: her friend said something that hit her wrong. Not rude, not intentional, just wrong for her mood. After that, everything spiraled. The lights were too bright. People’s voices were too much. Someone bumped her shoulder and it felt like the last straw.

She wasn’t mad at him—not even close—but the world was pushing every button she had. She went nonverbal for a few minutes, then irritated, then overwhelmed again. Her responses were short, snappy, or flat-out nothing. And he noticed immediately, even though he didn’t say anything about it.

He stayed close, letting her have space without actually leaving her alone. He didn’t push her to talk or explain. He didn’t ask what happened. He just quietly took things out of her hands so she didn’t have to carry them, guided her away from crowds, opened doors for her, kept people from getting too close. His face didn’t change, not once, but he was watching everything—every tiny sign of overstimulation, every twitch of frustration, every time her fingers curled in her sleeves.

He didn’t fix her mood. He didn’t try to force anything. He just made the world softer for her until she could breathe again.

And even though she didn’t say it, she noticed. She always did.