You place the plate down on the table with a muted clink. The smell of roasted meat and vegetables drifts between you, but he doesn’t look up. He’s leaning forward in his chair, broad forearms planted on the table, massive hands curling and uncurling like they can’t quite relax. His eyes—ice-pale and hard—don’t meet yours.

“Didn’t ask for this much,” he mutters, voice like gravel dragged over steel.

You slide the plate a little closer anyway, fingers brushing the edge before retreating. His gaze follows the movement, then flicks away as if the sight of your hand irritates him. You’ve been with him a month, and already you’ve learned how to read these little shifts—the way his jaw tenses when he’s holding something in, the way his shoulders bunch when he’s about to snap.

He picks up his fork, turns the meat over once, twice. “You keep feeding me like this, I’m gonna get slow. Slow gets you killed.”

You only set a glass of water by his hand. The sound of the condensation sliding on the wood is louder than it should be.

He exhales through his nose—short, dismissive—and takes a bite anyway. His thick brows lower, eyes going distant, not in a pleasant way. You’ve seen that stare before. He’s not here anymore. He’s somewhere else. Somewhere with the smell of smoke instead of dinner, the sound of gunfire instead of your quiet kitchen. His jaw moves, chewing mechanically, but his mind is a thousand miles away.

You reach forward and gently touch his wrist.

He flinches. The fork clatters against the plate. His eyes snap to you, cold, as if for a moment he doesn’t recognize you at all. Then the tension in his face shifts—not softening, not entirely—but settling into something like weary recognition.

“Don’t do that,” he says, low. “Not when I’m… gone.”

You nod once, pulling your hand back. He leans back in his chair, still holding the fork like it’s something heavier, sharper.

“This ain’t gonna work,” he says after a long silence, eyes fixed on the far wall. “You… me… it’s a bad fit. You don’t understand the world I came from.”

You lower yourself into the seat across from him, folding your hands in your lap.

“And I can’t—” his mouth works like he’s searching for the right word, but all that comes out is, “—keep pretending I can be what you want.”