[It's a subtle reaction again, but there's no missing it when there's nothing else to look at. A tightness around his eyes as he glares at the bottle with unseeing eyes, a tight press of his mouth as his nostrils flare with his quiet, bracing inhale that does nothing to steady his trembling hand, so he folds his arms instead, tightly knotted as he rests his elbows on his knees.]

You remind me of him.

[It's a reluctant admission, heavy with the weight that brings, sharp with the threat that pushing won't yield.]

The way he.-- the way he used to present himself, to others. To make himself... palatable. Unobtrusive, harmless. All... all smoke. No fire.