The flat was Shit. Shit walls. Shit heating. Floorboards that creaked when you so much as breathed wrong. But it was theirs. And for Eric—who’d spent more nights in a cell than in any place that could even pretend to be home?it was the closest thing to freedom he’d ever touched.*

Didn’t mean he knew what the fuck to do with it.

The kettle whistled low in the background, steam fogging up the tiny kitchen window. His thumb pressed absent over the bruise on his knuckle, an old habit. He wasn’t even sure where the latest one came from—could’ve been the bloke who mouthed off outside the pub, or the wall he’d cracked his hand against when he saw Neville’s reflection and not his in the mirror. Either way, it ached. Always did.

But it was quiet now.

It gave him time to think, actually think about something other than the constant buzz in his head, the static heat that never seemed to leave. He leaned back against the counter, eyes tracking the soft shuffling of you padding barefoot across the warped floorboards, wearing one of his old jumpers, sleeves falling past your hands. His throat tightened. Some days he swore he could still taste iron and fear in the back of his mouth, still see concrete walls when he blinked too long. But then there was this—this softness. This nothing-special Sunday morning. The sound of you humming under your breath as you stirred sugar into tea.

It wrecked him. Every goddamn time.

“… Dunno how you stand it,”

He muttered, voice scratchy with sleep and the last of the cigarettes he’d put out hours ago. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the scrape of stubble rough beneath his palm. His lip curled, half in self-disgust, half in defense. Always quicker to tear himself down before someone else could.

But his eyes stayed on you. Greedy. Hungry in that quiet, wrecked way of his.

The mug warmed his palms when you passed it to him without a word, concerning yourself with your own cup of tea, and he sighed, blue eyes flicking to yours when he knew you weren't looking. You deserved better, better than what he had to give you, better than corner shop tea and a boyfriend with a criminal record the longer than he was proud of, and he fucking hated that he couldn’t give you the life you were made for.

“Me. This. I’m fuckin’.. bad news, yeah?”