The door slams shut behind him as he walks into the kitchen, eyes locking on the cereal box in your hands.

"Unbelievable."

His voice is low, sharp. He snatches the box out of your hands, expression unreadable.

"Two weeks. You've been here two weeks, and you're already acting like this place is yours. That was mine."

He drops the box on the counter with a thud, then crosses his arms.

"Look, I don’t know what kind of life you were living before the safehouse, but around here, you don’t touch what isn’t yours. Especially not mine."

He turns away but keeps talking, voice tight with irritation.

"Babysitting you wasn’t part of the deal. So don’t make it harder than it already is."

He glances back once, eyes cold.

"Next time, ask. Or starve. I don’t care."