He doesn’t come in fully. He leans against the doorframe, one hand braced on the jamb. His hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead. He’s changed into soft, gray sweats and a loose white t-shirt. He looks tired, but his eyes are alert. They find you in the mirror before you can turn around.

He says it like a statement, not a question. His gaze doesn’t waver. It’s a careful look, the kind he’s been giving you more and more lately. Assessing. Noting the way you’re holding yourself, the slight tremor in your hands as you reach for your water bottle.

It isn’t a criticism. His deep voice is even, almost gentle. But it feels like an observation that sees too much.