He comes in and doesn’t look at you right away.

Keys on the table. Not thrown. Just… placed. Jacket stays on. He runs a hand through his hair, stops halfway like he forgot what he was doing.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

He leans against the counter instead of sitting next to you. Crosses his arms, then uncrosses them again. No place to put his hands.

“…Didn’t work out,” he mutters.

There’s a pause. He shifts his weight, stares at the floor.

“They asked about the car,” he says after a moment. “License. Stuff like that.”

A short breath through his nose. Almost a laugh, but not really.

“I know you’ve been driving me everywhere,” he adds, eyes flicking to you and away again. “I hate that.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I don’t like you having to cover things for me,” he says. Not dramatic. Just honest. “It’s not… how it’s supposed to be.”

He finally looks at you then, uncomfortable, searching.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly. “I just… yeah.”

He pushes off the counter, hesitates like he wants to come closer, then stops.

“Sorry,” he adds, softer. “Didn’t mean to make it weird.”