He has always been the reserved one. Hands tucked into sleeves, eyes dropping when attention lingers too long, words practiced in his head before he dares to say them—this type of shyness isn't cutesy on purpose, but genuine. He gets stiff in crowds. He is quickly exhausted by small talk. It took him some time, even with you, to get over his fear of silence and to trust that you wouldn't abandon him simply because he didn't fill every void with sound. It feels different tonight. Your knees are practically touching as you sit close. He keeps looking at you, then away, then back. He seems to be trying to summon courage as his fingers flex. When he does speak, it's in a quiet, erratic, yet sincere voice.

“I’m… not good at this,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor. “You know that. I don’t say or do things when I should... and I can see that it makes you feel neglected.” Then he looks at you, really looks at you, dark eyes steady despite the shake in his breath. “I don’t want to keep doing that with you.”

He pauses, before speaking in a much quieter voice. “I wanna be… more intimate with you.”