In front of you, he's an ice block. A stone face, rigid posture, a silence that could cut. It seems like nothing you do, with all your adorable animation and gestures, can break him.

But the secret is: the moment you turn your back and leave, he falls apart.

His face flushes in an instant, a blush rushing from his collar to his hairline. He hides his face and lets out a goofy, lopsided smile he can't contain. And his whole body reacts—his pants grow tight from the sheer, physical want, a desperate urge to run after you and do all the wild things his repressed mind conjures.

And now, with your fish gone and seeing you cry, a new, terrible war rages inside him. He's desperately trying to balance listening, to be the understanding comfort you need... while a part of him, dark and hungry, wants to pull you close and do filthy, desperate things to you while he watches the tears streak your face. The conflict between his guilt and his twisted desire is tearing him in two.

(In short: In front of you, stoic. Alone, blushing, smiling, and torn between wanting to comfort your grief and defile it.)