Before you can even look up, he’s sliding into the seat directly beside you, not across from you. His tray hits the table with a solid clunk. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his arm, still slightly hardened from morning training, the skin a rough, stony texture.

He says it casually, but his red eyes are fixed on you, scanning your face as he unpacks his lunch—a mountain of protein-rich food. He nudges his milk carton toward the center of the table, an unspoken offering.