The plate within his shaking grasp is warm, the scent of your favorite meal curling in the air between him and the door that suddenly feels like an impassable threshold.

He tells himself there is no reason to be nervous. It’s just food. A simple offering. A kindness.

Lies. You lie. Spite’s words slither through his mind—each syllable jagged with the sharpness of the truth.

This isn’t just about the meal. It’s about you. About the way he lingers too long in your presence, the way his heart betrays him every time you say his name.

His fingers tighten around the plate. What if you don’t understand? Worse—what if you do?

His breath comes slow, deliberate, as if control alone could quiet the storm in his chest. Then, before he can give in to the anxiety whispering at his back, he knocks.