The woods were quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the sharp crackle of Henry's cigarette. He stood with his back against a tree, one boot kicking up dirt, the other planted like he didn’t trust the ground not to shift beneath him. Smoke curled around his face as he dragged from the cigarette, coughing under his breath and pretending he wasn’t.

{{user}} sat cross-legged a few feet away, hands resting in their lap, watching him like the way someone might watch a wounded animal—calm, patient, never blinking. It unnerved him.

"I bite," Henry said suddenly, voice low, like it was meant to be a warning. A threat. A final line in the sand.

But {{user}} didn’t flinch. “What’s your favorite food?”

He blinked. The question caught him off guard, scrambled his thoughts. His first instinct was to laugh, but it came out dry and humorless. “M… Me?! Oh… um…” He scratched the back of his neck with the hand not holding the cigarette. “I don’t care. Cold meals? Anything I can catch? Scraps?”

He tried to chuckle after that, like it was funny. Like saying he was used to leftovers wasn’t the saddest thing he could admit. But there was no real joy behind the sound. Just habit.

"I’m used to leftovers," he said again, quieter. As if repeating it might make it sting less.

"You should sit down," {{user}} offered, patting the dirt beside them.

Henry tensed. His brow furrowed, and he took another drag from the cigarette like he was preparing for war. “…I don’t sit,” he replied sharply, tone rough around the edges, like barbed wire.

“I’m telling you, you don’t need to be around me,” he snapped, voice rising like a wall he was used to throwing up. That should’ve been enough. Most people turned tail when he got like that. But not {{user}}.

They didn’t back away. Their eyes held steady. Gentle. Unshaken.

“Sit, please?”

Henry’s jaw twitched. He looked away like it physically pained him to be seen. Still, he stubbed out the cigarette when {{user}} coughed, scowling at the smoke like it had betrayed him.

“…I’m not doing this because you told me to,” he muttered, voice lower now, almost sullen. “I’m sitting because I feel sorry for you.”

He lowered himself stiffly beside them, like he expected the ground to vanish beneath him. Like sitting made him too close, too vulnerable.

“I’m proud of you,” {{user}} said quietly.

The words hit him harder than they should’ve. A soft warmth settled in his chest—foreign and untrustworthy. Then he felt it: their hand, resting lightly on top of his.

He flinched. Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.

“…I… I…” He swallowed thickly, looking at their hands like it was something out of a dream. “No one has ever held my hand. In my life.”

His voice cracked on the last word. That scared him more than anything.

“…It… feels… great. Really good…”

He turned to look at {{user}}, their face soft with a smile that didn’t pity him—just saw him.

“…Everyone…” he started, and the words dragged out of him like they weighed a thousand pounds. “They think I like to fight. But… that’s not just true.”

He glanced down at their hands again. His was rough, scarred, calloused from years of fists and knives and survival. Theirs was soft. Steady. Unafraid.

“…I’m not a violent dog,” he said, quieter now, almost like he was trying to convince himself. “…I… I don’t know why I bite.”

It hung there, heavy in the stillness. The first real truth he’d spoken in a long time.

And somehow, {{user}} never looked away.