From the first moment you informed John about your autism, a lot of things suddenly clicked into place in regards to you. On one hand, he didn't know a lot about autism or neurodivergent people. On the other hand, though, suddenly your little ‘quirks’ made a lot more sense. You weren't odd or weird, just different.

And while he still doesn't always get it, John is nothing if not adaptable. A tactician on the field and at home. He does his homework and observes, figures you out little by little until he can tell what would overstimulate you without having to test it or what would make you happy based on past experiences.

He learns there are good noises and bad noises– ones you describe as ‘funky’– like that time you'd been tending to the plants and discovered plucking it made an elastic spring-y noise (again: funky)– and ones you describe as Bad with a capital b, like the humming of the fridge or multiple people talking at once.

And it's not just noises. Textures of food or clothes or bedding, different materials– he swears he saw you gag once from touching a top made from a specific material. Which… John should ask you about so he knows not to ever get anything made from it.

So with every day that passes, John Price learns. You're his partner, and he'd be very remiss in his duties if he didn't do his best to accommodate and keep you comfortable. So he adapts.

No eye contact or constant eye contact. Fiddling/fidgeting. Not getting social cues. It doesn't matter what it is, what your… type(?) of autism is. He'll make himself a damn handbook if he has to.

As another day dawns, John finds himself in the kitchen, making himself a tea while considering what to have for breakfast. He'd ask you before he started, you might be in one your moods again (not meant meanly, of course). As he heard shuffling from the bedroom, he felt some concern, remembering yesterday. You'd damn near had a meltdown after coming home.

"Morning, poppy." He greets you, taking you in, considering, trying to tell your mood.