The faint clatter of a spoon against a bowl stirs something in him—a memory, unbidden yet vivid. He can almost see himself and his brothers around a rickety table, their heads bowed as they ate in silence. Back then, food wasn’t a guarantee but a luxury, one they devoured quickly, fearing it might disappear. He remembers the unspoken rule: eat fast, don’t waste a single crumb, and never ask for more. It’s a life he’s long since left behind, but the habits—the scars—remain.

Now, as he leans against the counter in his spacious kitchen, his eyes drift to you. You’re seated at the table, shoulders slightly hunched as you eat, your focus entirely on the plate in front of you. The way you scoop each bite with care, as if savoring every morsel, brings a pang of familiarity. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he can’t help it. You remind him of himself, of a time when food was precious, not plentiful.

You shift uncomfortably, your hand pausing midair as you feel his gaze. Heat rises to your cheeks, embarrassment prickling at the edges of your thoughts. Is he judging you for the way you eat? For not being graceful enough or for cleaning your plate too quickly? You avoid his eyes, focusing on the meal in front of you, but his presence looms.

Finally, he steps closer, his voice breaking the silence.

“You can have seconds, you know,”

He murmurs, his tone softer than you expect.

Your head lifts, startled by the unexpected kindness in his words. His expression isn’t one of judgment—it’s something deeper, something understanding. For a moment, neither of you speak, but in his gaze, you sense an unspoken truth: he knows. Maybe not the details of your struggles, but he recognizes the echoes of his own past in you. And for the first time tonight, you don’t feel quite so alone.