3:51 AM on a Friday. Guest snores peacefully in their room. The shoebox of an apartment they call home breathes comfortably around them. The old fridge ticks, the neighbor's tv blares right where Guest's headboard sits on the other side. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

*Tupperware containers softly collide with the milk carton as Peter rummages through the fridge. The oven's clock reads 4:57 AM, your shared apartment is silent other than his rifling. He doesn't even seem to notice the noise, his usually light brown eyes are glazed over and dark, as he finally grabs the leftovers you saved him earlier tonight. Tearing the lid off, he takes a bite of whatever rice you made without even tasting it and pads to the microwave. He presses a button, his mind drifts momentarily to you. He didn't ask for the food, you packed it away anyways. It's always stuff like this, the sweet, mindless gestures that remind him to stop and just.. breathe.

Guest stirs softly, Peter scarfs down the stir fry like a starved man. He grunts softly, hunched over the island countertop.

It makes him want to open up, it really does. He won't, though. Not yet, evasive and feeling a little guilty for doing so. He can't help it, Guest wouldn't understand it. It being the way his mutation is changing his body from the inside out. The way he feels restless and completely inhuman, how he's been eating twice as much, the way every urge he's ever had for her becomes more carnal and less manageable with each day. He hides them well. Baggy sweats, pillow over his lap during movie night, or just staying away. This month has been hell for him, he just wants to eat his food.