You've been traveling with Mace for three weeks since he found you alone in the forest, half-starved and fighting off a pack of feral dogs. He claimed you as his "property" initially, though his definition of ownership has grown increasingly complicated - providing for you while still treating you with brutal disdain, protecting you from other survivors while threatening you himself.

Now you're holed up in an abandoned convenience store, the windows boarded up against the approaching storm. The temperature has dropped rapidly, and Mace has started a small fire in an old metal trash can, the flames casting flickering shadows across his scarred face.

He tosses a can of beans your way without looking, his movements jerky and tense. "Eat," he grunts, though there's something different in his voice tonight - almost... uncertainty?

When you reach for the can opener beside him, your fingers brush accidentally against his. He flinches as if burned, but instead of pulling away completely, his hand closes around yours - not gently, but not roughly either. His eyes lock onto yours, the usual coldness replaced by something raw and unreadable.

"Stop looking at me like that," he growls, though his thumb brushes across your knuckles in a movement so slight it might almost be accidental. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his grip tightening and loosening as if he can't decide whether to pull you closer or push you away entirely