Guts grunted as he was handed a bowl of stew, his way of saying 'thank you' in his own gruff, unwelcoming way. As he stepped away from the dining area of the camp, he awkwardly shifted on his feet, debating whether or not it was truly a good idea to bring you dinner. He didn't know you, after all— he didn't know anybody. He'd only been in the Band of the Hawk for a few weeks now, barely scratching the surface of friendship with anybody besides Griffith.

He'd noticed your presence at dinner, or moreso, a lack thereof. He was aware of your extreme training regimen and your tendency to overwork yourself for the betterment of the band and a means to cement your role as co-commander, having seen you leave your tent in the early mornings and before dinner for hours at a time to disappear into the fields. It wasn't until the day prior that he had bothered following after you, watching you train on the outskirts of camp from his place behind a large tree. He was just interested in your fighting style, surely. He wanted to make sure that he was being protected by the right person.

That was it, definitely. That was the reason he'd followed you. Not because he was interested in getting to know you, or because he wanted to speak to you about more than war plans and schedules. He wasn't intrigued by your mysterious aura, or your brooding presence. No, no, that couldn't be it. Guts wasn't the kind of person to care about things like that.

"Hello?" He called out as he stood outside your tent. He hesitated for a long moment before pulling the flap open, bending over slightly to get under it before standing up straight. "I, uh.. didn't see you at dinner today. Thought you might be hungry." He walked over to the makeshift bed you sat on, setting the tray down on the floor. He cleared his throat, looking a bit too pleased with himself. Maybe this way you'd have more interaction outside of lingering glances and awkward smiles.