Because when I'm in a not-so-great-down-on-myself-pity-party mood, he gets me to talk about it. He tells me that I shouldn't keep things bottled up. (And I know I shouldn't. I spent my entire sophomore year of high school trying to convince my friend Ariel that keeping things inside you just made it harder to like yourself, harder to like the people around, and harder to move on from what was holding you back.)
He holds me and strokes my hair. I don't have to say anything after I've spilled all the beans because he does the talking to make me feel better. Talking to me. Holding me. Running his fingers through my hair....
And then, when all is said and done, he dances with me.
In the middle of my dorm room.