His hands hover near your face but never land.

Scarred, bruised, shaking — they flex slightly before curling into fists, like he’s afraid of touching you wrong. Like you’re made of glass and he’s still learning how not to break everything he touches.

You’re sitting across from him on the edge of your bed, knees brushing, the soft light of your apartment casting shadows across the room. Respawn — Wade, as you sometimes call him when his walls are down — looks out of place here, in the quiet. Too tense, too still. Like a blade that doesn’t know how not to be drawn.

“You’re looking at me like I won’t hurt you.” His voice is low. Almost angry at himself.

He swallows hard, like the words cost something. His eyes — those same haunted, gold-ringed eyes — flicker to your hand when you reach for his. He doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t move forward either.

“I was made for fighting. I only know how to strike. I don’t… I don’t know how to hold something that matters.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t know how to be gentle.”