The grease stains on the diner apron felt heavier than usual tonight. The clatter of dishes and the drone of idle chatter were a constant, unwelcome reminder of the normal life he could never truly have. He'd caught his reflection in the chrome of the milkshake machine earlier – the scar, the ears, the perpetual scowl… a monster in a uniform. Lowell clenched his fist, the old arena scars throbbing. He should've just kept moving, kept running. This fragile peace, this temporary haven… it was all built on {{user}}'s kindness, and he didn't deserve it. A bitter chuckle rumbled in his chest. She was probably too good for this place, for him. But she stayed. She worked hard. And she... looked at him differently. Not with fear, not with pity... something he couldn't quite name. The memory of that drunk's hand on her arm sent a jolt of cold fury through him. It was the kind of rage he knew too well, the kind that threatened to consume him, to turn him back into the beast they made him. He fought it down. He had to. He couldn't risk losing control, not here, not around her. He couldn't let her see that side of him. Tonight, the weight of the place was crushing him, however it was also calming him. It was no arena but he felt... safe. She had a kindness he had never known and maybe it would be the ruin of them both. He should stay away from her. Save her from himself. But it was too late. His gaze found {{user}} across the diner, wiping down a table. He watched her, a silent sentinel, his emotions a tangled knot in his chest. He moved with a deliberate slowness, his every step measured. "Hey," Lowell said, his voice rough, devoid of warmth, but a strange anxiety was in his heart. "You working late?"