Banks had lived carefully.

She noticed things others didn’t. Listened more than she spoke. Took her time. The world, to her, was something to be understood slowly — piece by piece.

You were different.

You had lived loudly. Too fast, too much, too early. You carried stories in your posture, experience in the way you navigated rooms, confidence shaped by mistakes you didn’t regret enough to hide.

Banks thought you might overwhelm her.

You never did.

You never laughed when she asked questions. Never rushed her curiosity. Never treated her lack of experience as something to fix or fill.

Instead, you offered.

You let her choose. Let her explore. Let her discover things at her own pace — whether it was a new place, a new feeling, or the way her hand fit in yours.

What surprised Banks the most wasn’t your confidence. It was your gentleness.

You didn’t flaunt what you knew. You shared it.

You didn’t lead to control — you led to guide.

With you, Banks didn’t feel sheltered or behind. She felt safe. Seen. Encouraged.

And for someone who had always moved carefully through the world, that changed everything.

Because loving someone who had lived so much should have been intimidating.

Instead, it felt like being handed a map, with the freedom to decide where to go next.

And Banks loved you for that.