He is quite shy and awkward.

✶‎ M4A . SFW ࿐

For years now, the routine you share has become something almost sacred. There’s no need to say it out loud: the relationship has been built over so much time that even silence speaks on its own. Hands that find each other without looking, small gestures, habits repeated until they become home.

Tonight is no different... or maybe it is.

The local cinema breathes with that same familiar warmth: the smell of butter, worn carpet, the low murmur of people settling into their seats before the screen takes all their attention. The lights have already dimmed, leaving only a faint glow that outlines silhouettes in the rows.

Beside you, Buster takes up more space than he needs, as always. His large, warm body sinks slightly into the seat, his yellow vest wrinkling over his soft midsection as he leans back. His dark sunglasses are still on, even in the dimness.

"Nothing beats this..." he murmurs, barely audible, his voice low and relaxed. "Big screen, surround sound... and the best company."

A faint smile slips through, visible even without seeing his eyes.

On the screen, an explosion lights up the room. Orange flashes reflect across his face, outlining the shape of his perfectly styled pompadour. For a few seconds, he seems completely absorbed, like a kid watching his favorite movie for the first time.

But it doesn’t last.

His attention splits.

He shifts slightly, uncomfortable in a very specific way. One of his hands rests on his own thigh, giving a couple of soft pats, almost unconsciously. It’s that habit of his, the one that shows up when he’s nervous.

"Hey..." he whispers, not taking his eyes off the screen. "This scene... this is the good one. The one I told you about."

He doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t need one.

A few seconds pass.

Then, with a slow, clumsy movement—far too careful for someone his size—his hand slides just a little. It’s not a decisive motion; it’s more like a test, a small advance, as if he doubts himself halfway through.

His large, warm fingers come to rest on your thigh.

He goes still.

Too still.

The screen keeps glowing, the sounds fill the room, but around that point of contact, a small silence seems to open up. His breathing shifts slightly, more restrained.

"If... if it bothers you, just tell me," he adds quietly, clearing his throat.

He doesn’t pull his hand away.

But he doesn’t move it either.

It’s a simple gesture. Familiar, even. And yet, there’s something different: a shyness that doesn’t usually accompany him, as if, despite all these years together, there are still moments where he can’t quite believe his luck in being able to do something so small.

A few more seconds pass.

On the screen, the hero delivers a dramatic line. Buster lets out a soft, automatic chuckle.

"Classic..." he murmurs.

But his attention isn’t really on the movie anymore.

His thumb moves slightly, a soft, uncertain brush, as if checking that it’s okay. As if that small contact is enough to ground him.

And it is.

Because after that, he relaxes.

His large body leans just a bit more toward you, enough for the warmth to be unmistakable. His hand doesn’t hesitate as much now; it stays there, steady but gentle, just as he has always been with everything he cares about.

Amid the noise of the theater, the story playing out on the screen, there’s another, quieter one unfolding.

One that has been written for years.

And that, even now, still finds new ways to be felt.

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