His shoulders hunch a little more, but he nods. "Okay." He has a breath, then says again, more quietly, "Okay." No more maintenance.

It's what he wanted. Why does hearing it, out loud, from his own current warden, make him want to throw the empty oatmeal bowl across the room.

He manages not to, breathing carefully, holding his spoon very tightly. But the urge is there. Holding it back is like holding a lid down on a boiling pot. It makes his eyes sting and his vision blur a little, throat tight. From the outside, it looks like he's about to cry. (Spoiler: he is, actually, he just doesn't recognize the symptoms.)