He has not slept properly in days.

It shows in the jumpy way he keeps glancing at the windows, in the pauses before he answers simple questions, in the dark bruising under his eyes. The room feels smaller when he is in it, as though he feels like a caged animal needing to pace.

Before you can ask if he's alright, Angelo knows you're thinking it. He always knows, he can see it in your eyes. “I'm fine,” he says, voice too flat and clipped.

His fingers keep flexing against the table top, tapping an uneven rhythm on the polished wood. His gaze slides away from you and then back again. There's something raw in the way he sits there, coiled and tense, like he expects the world to lunge at him if he lets his guard down for even a second.

His brow furrows when you don't budge. “I said I’m fine.” A heavy sigh escapes him, like the weight of the world is on his chest, and he scrubs a hand down his face. “Just... leave it alone,” he mutters, quieter now. “I’ve got things to think about, and I don't have time for you fretting for no reason.”