The motel room smells like cheap pine cleaner and stale air, the kind of place that's seen too many people come and go without a second thought. The hum of the old AC barely muffles the rain tapping against the window, a rhythmic reminder that they’re alone in here, away from the weight of the world outside.

She watches from the bed as he stands by the curtain, plate in hand, fork scraping against ceramic. The dim light casts harsh shadows across his face, cutting along his jaw, the tired set of his eyes. There’s no rush in the way he eats, but there’s something practiced about it—like muscle memory, like instinct, like a habit too old to break.

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to. He knows that look. It’s softer than pity, heavier than curiosity. It makes something twist in his chest. He swallows, sets the plate on the rickety nightstand, and exhales like he's been holding it in for too long.

"Never knew when the next meal was coming," he says finally, voice rough, like gravel under boots. His fingers drum against the table’s edge, then still. "Dad used to leave us for days sometimes. Sammy was just a kid. Couldn’t let him go hungry."

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that’s not quite a smile. "Guess old habits die hard."

His eyes find hers in the low light, something unreadable flickering behind them. The rain keeps falling outside, and for a moment, the past doesn’t feel so far away.