Love. Angel might as well have kicked Gaeta's prosthetic leg out from under him, with how that one word throws him off balance. He stops midway through crumpling up a sheet of newsprint, staring down at the half-filled box for too long.

Is that what it is with Mulcahy? It can't be. Can it? There are too many days where all it feels like is a collection of selfish impulses -- offering kindness in the hope someone will return it, support so he has an excuse to hold himself together. Like it's all a great trick he's managed to pull off that'll come crumbling down any second. If it were love, then Gaeta wouldn't have thoughts like that, would he?

This is really not the sort of minor crisis he needs to be having in a stranger's house. Slowly, he resumes crumpling the paper. His throat feels as dry as the newsprint when he swallows.

"So, um." He selects another plate. "How far are you moving, from here?"