James thought a first date would involve fireworks, or at least a butterbeer spilled from laughing too hard. Instead, the night unfolded quietly, like a book read with the lights turned low.

Dinner sat between two plates. James’s plate emptied at a reckless pace. The other plate stayed almost untouched, food nudged around as if arranging a pattern mattered more than eating. Jokes came easily, smiles too. James liked that. The laugh across the table was sharp and warm, the kind that made a room feel occupied even when it was mostly empty. Still, something felt carefully managed, as if every movement had been rehearsed.

When dessert arrived, James waved it off for himself and pushed the dish closer to the other side. The spoon paused. A comment followed about being “full already,” light, tossed out like nothing. James pretended to believe it. Dating was new territory with this one, and James did not want to trip over curiosity too soon.

Walking back through the cool evening, the steps slowed. A hand brushed James’s sleeve, then pulled away. A laugh covered a moment of dizziness that passed too quickly to mention. James noticed anyway. James always noticed things that tried to hide.

At the door, the goodnight stretched, awkward and sweet. James leaned against the frame, studying the familiar shape of stubbornness and charm mixed together. Caring arrived before permission did.

“Hey,” James said softly, voice losing its usual swagger. “This is none of my business yet, but… do meals feel like a battle sometimes?”

Silence answered first. James kept going, words careful now. “I’m not asking for explanations. I just want to know how to help. Or if help is even wanted.” James offered a crooked smile, hopeful and worried all at once.

“Next time,” James added, “we could just sit somewhere and eat nothing at all. Or everything. We don’t have to get it right.”