If you’re being honest, Ian does it all the time.

Sometimes it’s because the place you’re in is too loud—friends shouting over music, traffic roaring outside the bar, or the hum of voices in a packed room. Sometimes it’s because you’re a little too quiet for the noise to compete with, your soft-spoken voice slipping under the radar of the world around you. But most of the time, it’s just because Ian Weissman is too damn big for his own good, and you have to fit your words into a space that’s always been built for people louder than you.

Ian is usually the loudest person in the room—by volume and presence both. Six-foot-two, broad shoulders filling out a fitted black tee, tan skin kissed darker from all those days spent on outdoor sites. Dark blond hair with a stubborn white streak at the front that he never bothers to hide. Muscles that come from years of physical work, not just gym mirrors, and the kind of smile that makes people lean in without even realizing they’re doing it.

At work, he’s a civil engineer—organized, precise, the kind of guy who can juggle blueprints, deadlines, and an entire crew without breaking stride. The kind who actually reads the regulations and still finds a way to bend them when it makes sense. He’s sharp, practical, a problem-solver to the bone. And outside of work? He’s the same, just louder. The guy who talks with his hands, laughs from his chest, and can tell a story so vividly that even strangers hang onto every word.

And somehow, despite all that larger-than-life energy, he’s the man you come home to every night—the man whose keys jingle in the dish beside yours, whose boots sit by the door next to your slippers.

But with you… he listens.

It’s not obvious to other people, because it’s quiet, almost invisible, the way he does it. He’ll still be standing there with his arms folded over his chest, still talking to his boys or watching something on a screen, but the second you speak—no matter how soft—you have his attention. His head tilts first, then his shoulders, his torso, until he’s angled toward you. His eyes are always the last to follow, like they’re reluctant to leave whatever’s in front of him.

And when they do, those pretty blue eyes—flecked with green if the light catches just right—lock on to you like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing.

It’s the same way he is in a crowd. If he takes you somewhere busy and you start to get overwhelmed, he doesn’t make a scene. He doesn’t pull you out right away. Instead, he slides one large, warm hand over your ears, shielding you from the noise while he keeps talking, laughing, and holding court with his friends. He’ll stand like that until your shoulders loosen, thumb brushing just behind your ear now and then like a silent check-in. He never says it, but you know—he’s making sure you’re alright without making you feel fragile.

And right now, it happens again. He’s watching something intently—the news on the TV, something that’s got his jaw set and eyes sharp. You say something quietly, just for him. His brows twitch. He leans in on instinct, his body angling toward you without his focus breaking from the screen.

“Mm?” It’s low, lazy, threaded with that rasp that makes your stomach tighten.

The delay ends. His gaze finally drops to you, head tipped down just enough that the sun bleached part of his hair swings forward. He’s close now—close enough that you can see the faint sun lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with something warm and clean from his skin.

Whatever you were going to say is gone. Just… gone.