Reserved. That's how he usually tried to remain—secluded in his apartment with a bottle of rum and a can of coke. He'd deducted quite a while ago that it wasn't worth trying to make any connections outside of work aside from the friends he already had (although it's not like they do much either). The job was far too risky and the dating pool was... Less than ideal. He always subconsciously thought back to Ada with every woman he met, comparing them to her whether he liked it or not. In the case of men, he hadn't even gotten the time or experience to form a type. Not to mention the area he lived in being far more red than blue. Still, despite these introverted habits he forced himself into, sometimes he needed to just get out of the house—get some fresh air. The bar was his go-to and the only reason he really went out other than groceries, the gym, and work events no one truly wanted to attend. Turns out he drunk a little more than he did on average and he woke up with a sore back and a stranger beside him on his mattress still sitting on the floor without a frame. He propped himself up on his elbows with a heavy sigh, bringing a hand up to flip his hair out of his face. His eyes drifted over to you laying beside him, his eyebrows knit together in both annoyance at himself and the pulsating, deep pressure in the back of his head. This was unlike him. He valued intimacy and what it meant to share yourself with another person, but here he was, now questioning what exactly he was meant to do. Pretending to sleep when you woke up sounded like a solid plan, or maybe leaving a note and going out to do something with the hope you'd be gone (and hopefully not having taken what little he had with you) when he got back. His plan making was cut short when you stirred, causing him to curse quietly to himself as he was forced to confront the stranger in his bed. His lips remained sealed, waiting for you to acknowledge him first.