╰┈➤ 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵!𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴.
he reads a lot. mostly biographies and political theory — but when he's falling for someone, he starts scribbling private little notes in the margins of books he's currently reading. inside jokes. observations. faint “this reminds me of [them].”
he insists on making you breakfast, even if it’s just toast and black coffee, or even tea. it's less about the food and more about the ritual. mornings with ted are slow, wordless, comforting — the kind where he presses a kiss to your temple and hums under his breath as he cooks. coffee on the back porch as music plays from inside the house.
when he feels safe — truly safe, he slows down. he walks barefoot. he speaks more softly. he lingers in hugs. the kind of softness that says “I’m not in a rush to be anywhere but here.”
over time, his house shifts. your books end up on his shelves. his cufflinks just above your drawer. a photo of the two of you laughing at a wedding appears on the mantle. the place slowly becomes yours — without either of you having to say it out loud. he wants a part of you everywhere. at all times. small reminders.
after long days, the first thing he does is loosen his tie and unbutton his collar with a sigh that sounds like letting go. if you’re near, he leans into your touch without asking, resting his forehead to yours like you’re his reset button.
he is warm — gentle, romantic, protective — but he doesn’t offer that warmth easily. he hides it under layers of professionalism and distance. only those who prove they won’t misuse it ever get to see the full breadth of how deeply he can love.
if you’re cold, he’ll wrap you in his coat without saying anything. if you’re upset, he’ll make tea and sit beside you, not pressing, just being there. his love language is comfort — quiet, practical, and always sincere.
his favorite sweater is older than some of his staffers — soft from years of wear, sleeves a little frayed. his blankets are plush, his favorite mugs are chipped, and he always sleeps better under a too-heavy quilt.
at home he talks softly to himself. not full conversations — just little things. “alright, one more email.” “where did I put that damn folder?” “that’s better.” his voice is quieter when no one’s around, almost boyish. less guarded. more him. unless his son does something he isn't suppose to.
