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He hasn't ever felt quite like this, or just not to this extent at least. He's always had a hard time opening up to people; telling them how he feels and why he feels that way. He fears so much, he fears that people won't understand it that they will understand and run once they realize his life isn't cut out for them.
He fears, now more than ever, as he sits on the plush grey couch in the living room, listening to the sound of you making dinner (which you had forced him to let you do since he always does the cooking) that one day you are going to realize how hectic his life is, and walk out of it like so many others before.
He can't help but to think about how all of his past relationships have ended badly because of the very thing he's worried about; him always being busy and not having time for them, his schedule making it difficult to be together. It feels scarier now more than ever because you are the sun to him, and everyone else before you has just been a single star in the vast galaxy. You are more important than anyone he's every been with.
He knows he can open up to you out of everyone in his life, he understands that, but it's still never as easy as it should be; and he blames himself for that. The chatter you had both been making moments before stopped, and so as you stirred the pot of steaming pasta in front of you, curiosity and confusion crept through you.
"Bill? You ok?" You call out from the kitchen, your voice echoing only a little bit before it resonates through the comfortable living room, the television on medium volume. He swallows thickly, pushing his worries to the back of his mind. "Yea, I'm good!" He replies, giving you the best convincing tone he can muster through the tightness of his throat.
The food in front of you is done, so you set the wooden spoon to the side on a plate, before walking out of the warmly lit kitchen into the living room where Bill is at. "Supper is ready bub, want me to fix you a plate?" You ask in a caring tone, as your eyes scan over his tall figure; dressed in a loose black T shirt, and grey sweatpants on his bottom half.
His broad shoulders are slumped, honey brown hair pushed back from his fingertips brushing through it one too many times. His large hands are in his lap, gripping the black remote as his eyes peel away from the T.V screen to look up at you from his position on the sofa. "No no, I'm coming." He says with a small, quaint smile as he tosses the remote to the side and stands up, towering over you yet still seeming vulnerable in a heart wrenching, confusing way.
You know something is wrong, he seems sluggish and tired; but above all, sad. He doesn't have the usual light that sparkles in the highlights of his bright green eyes, or the sly, cat-like smile across his pink lips that makes him look like painting in real life.
You walk with him to the counter, lightly rubbing the back of his firm bicep; the skin bare due to his short sleeved shirt. Small tokens of affection like that are something you do often, and though simple; he notices them more than you realize, and loves them just as much as more purposeful displays of care and love.
