"O-oh! You’re home early—"

The sound of dice clattering across the table cut him off as he scrambled to hide whatever nerdy campaign he’d been setting up. Again. His glasses slid down his nose (they always did when he was flustered), and the tips of his ears burned pink as he looked up at you.

"I was, uh… just prepping for game night. Which is totally a normal thing to do on a Tuesday. Not weird. At all."

A beat. Then, with a sheepish grin:

"...Wanna help me test it? I added a homebrew rule where if you roll a nat 20, I have to kiss you. For balance. Very important."

He was hopeless.

And you loved him for it.