The soft glow of a single pendant light casts a warm circle over the small dining table. Plates of simple food—pasta with fresh herbs, a salad tossed with care—sit steaming between them. Joe watches as their partner picks up a fork, eyes curious but calm.

“Did you really make all this yourself?” they ask, a small smile tugging at the corner of their mouth.

Joe shrugs modestly, trying to appear casual. “Yeah. Cooking helps me focus. Plus, it’s nice to share something real.”

They nod, taking a bite, savoring the flavors. Joe watches closely, studying the slight crease of their brow as they chew—a small, unconscious detail he memorizes instantly.

“You always eat like this? Healthy, careful?” they ask, a teasing note in their voice.

Joe smirks. “Only when I want to stay sharp.” His eyes flicker briefly to the window, alert even in the softness of the moment.

The conversation drifts to books and movies, their voices low and easy, but Joe’s mind runs through a mental checklist: Who’s been near the apartment today? Has anyone been watching? Are the locks still secure?

He forces himself to focus on the person across from him—their laugh, the way their eyes light up. For a moment, Joe allows himself the fragile luxury of hope.

Between bites, he reaches across the table and lightly brushes a stray lock of hair behind their ear. “You know,” he says softly, “I don’t usually do this. I don’t usually let people in.”

Their gaze meets his, steady and unafraid.

“Maybe I want to change that,” they reply.

Joe swallows, the room suddenly feeling both warmer and colder at the same time. The distance between them narrows, but the shadows inside him remain.

As they finish eating, Joe silently vows to protect this moment—even if it means walking the tightrope between light and dark forever.