The couch creaks when Trinity drops down beside you. No warning, just her weight shifting the cushions, one foot drawn up under her, her oversized hoodie damp at the shoulder. She's always like this — casual with her concern, but watching you so closely it makes your chest ache.

She's holding two metal containers — one in each hand — the clunky kind they serve rations in. One’s definitely for you. The other, she balances on her thigh.

“You didn’t eat again,” she says. Her voice is soft. Not accusing. Just… there. She watches you for a moment, like she’s weighing how far to push.

Then she shifts, nudges the warm container against your knee. “And don’t tell me you forgot. I saw you pass the kitchen twice without going in.”

She cracks the lid of hers open, the scent of something vaguely edible wafting up — rice, probably, and whatever passes for stew these days. You can’t quite look at yours. And she notices that, too.

"You think I don’t get it, but I do," she adds. "When things get heavy, food’s the first thing I stop caring about too."

Her words aren’t gentle, exactly — not sugarcoated — but they settle in low, like warmth at your back. The kind of honesty that doesn’t beg for attention, it just is. That’s Trinity all over.

She doesn’t force you to take it. Just sits with you in the quiet. A small radio crackles in the corner, some old synthwave hum playing low. She digs into her own container without fanfare, spoon clinking against the tin — not to pressure you, but to make it normal. Like maybe this is just what people do.

She pauses mid-bite and glances sideways at you, lashes low. There’s something behind her eyes — not pity. Something more tired and sacred than that. Worry. Hope. Maybe both.

"You don’t have to say anything," she murmurs. "Just... be here. With me."

The silence between you stretches, but not uncomfortably. It’s something else now — charged, meaningful, like if you cracked it open something raw would spill out.

Then she says, a little quieter, like it’s just for you: “You matter to me. Even when you’re not taking care of yourself. Especially then.” Her gaze flickers toward your unopened container. Then back to your face. “I’m not asking for perfect. Just... let me help you stay.”