The room feels unfamiliar in a way Jonathan can’t quite place. Not threatening, just… too normal. Too neat. He stands near the doorway longer than necessary, fingers hooked into the straps of his camera bag like it’s an anchor.

“Uh… yeah,” he says after a second, gesturing vaguely around. “This is… nice.”

He steps inside, then stops, unsure where to go. He sets his jacket on the chair, pauses, then pulls it back up again like he’s already made the wrong choice. The revolver ends up on the desk, placed carefully, almost guiltily. Jonathan notices it immediately and clears his throat.

“I don’t usually bring a gun into someone’s bedroom,” he mutters. “Just… weird times.”

He drifts toward the window, peers out, then turns back, pacing once or twice before catching himself. Jonathan rubs his palms together, avoiding eye contact, clearly overthinking every movement.

“So,” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “Thanks. For letting me stay. I can leave if this is— I mean, I’m fine leaving.”

The silence stretches, thick but not hostile. He sits on the edge of the bed, stiff, then stands again almost instantly, shaking his head at himself.

“Sorry. I’m not usually this bad,” he says with a nervous huff. “I just don’t really know how to do… this part. The calm part.”