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Maybe it's a Hernandez trait. Like how Tyler's the only one who calls Ash 'carrots' or Aiden 'psycho.'
It's the only logical reason Ben can think of for why Taylor gives him so many pet names.
"Hey, sunshine," she says, when he's groggy from just waking up, and she musses his hair and makes his bed head worse.
"Ben, dear," she sighs with fond exasperation, when she wants to scold him but also wants to laugh.
"Okay, Picasso," she remarks, when she steals an admiring peek at his sketchbook.
"Pretty boy," she teases, when she helps him clasp his necklace around his neck.
"Alright, buddy," she warns, when he beats her for the third time in a video game.
"Mí pequeñito," she says, when she cups his face in her hands and her nose brushes against his.
"C'mon, rockstar," she tells him when she has that glint in her eyes that means they're going on an adventure.
"Hey, big guy," she whispers, when he's under the weather and she keeps him company.
And in quiet moments, when they're dozing off together, she murmurs, “mi vida,” and causes his heart to patter staccato inside his chest.
He's not used to terms of endearment or displays of affection; how easily and openly Taylor loves. His ears still turn warm when she calls his name.
It makes him worry he won't be able to live without it.
Already, he feels like he can't pay it back. Does Taylor ever wish he would give her nicknames or compliment her more? Or that he could put 'i-love-you's' into words? Or that she had a boyfriend who just talked normally?
No. She's always been patient and encouraging, along with the rest of their friends: Logan and Ash are content to sit for long bouts of silence with him; Aiden laughs at the jokes Ben cracks, even when they're at his own expense; and whenever Ben tries to apologize for stumbling over his words, Tyler won't have it.
It's slow work. But with the phantoms behind them, most of his fears seem simpler, more conquerable. The shame choke-holding him since back then has loosened its grip around his throat. He can breathe and speak again.
Even when words fail him, though, Taylor can hear him.
When the two of them are both too tired to cook, so he orders takeout.
When he listens to her ramble about the good and bad in her day.
When he sends her a song to listen to.
When he leaves notes or doodles in her things.
When they're making fun of low-budget movies together.
When he forces her to take a nap after she works multiple late nights, because she forgets she needs breaks, too.
When he braids and unbraids and braids her hair.
When he puts a band-aid on another one of her cuts, because she's always trying to fix things up and getting scratched, and he presses a kiss to it.
When they fall into comfortable silence, whether they’re on a long drive, or walking together, or falling asleep, and he smiles at her—she can hear him saying, I love you, loud and clear.