Gods, he didn't want to ask you this.

Surely, it would be fine, he kept telling himself. You'd been dating a while now, coming up to six months and a bit; he knew you were great – kind, understanding – but he was afraid of judgement, truly.

It got lonely in his cabin. Cold, shivering under the gaze of his father, of whom he'd tried to scurry away from.

He sat opposite you at dinner, knuckles turning white as he gripped his knife. "Hey, can I ask something?"