He knew that no one would believe him if he told them it was one of his favorite things in the world.
Perhaps it was simply because he was a man from the 40's.
Maybe it just reminded him of a simpler time in his life. A time before all the hurt, before his mind was tainted with all the ugliness he'd seen in the world, before his heart was painted blue.
But he didn't think that was it.
No, he likes the way the warmth of your palms radiate through his shirt.
He likes that he can hear the way your heart rate slightly spike in anticipation when he dropped the needle onto a chosen vinyl record, just for it to slow as you rest your head against his shoulder.
Sometimes he doesn't even follow the rhythm of the music, but the steady thump of your beating heart.
He likes holding his hand out to you. He's giddy when he sees that shy smile on your face when you look up at him, a faint flush appearing on your face every time without fail.
He likes the all encompassing warmth that envelopes him as you secure your arms around him. He likes that he can feel your breath dance just above the collar of his shirt.
And the way your thumb will stroke his cheek, trailing down to his jawline.
He likes the way his breath catches in his throat when you press your lips to his shoulder, sometimes you'll press the most gentle of kisses just beneath his jaw, on his neck.
He'll never get enough of the goosebumps that erupt all over his skin when you do that.
He likes that he'll never have to doubt that your hand will hold his. No words need to be shared. That for just a few moments, all the worries of the world seem to disappear. That nothing else matters in that moment except you and him.
No one would ever believe him if he told them that it was one of his favorite things in the world.
But it was.
It really was.