The door eases open with the kind of care he has learned from years of sneaking back into barracks without waking half the unit. The house is dark, quiet, the kind of stillness he was counting on.

He slip inside, shutting the door with a quiet click. Boots off first, uniform jacket next.

Then he moves toward the kitchen, aiming for water and maybe the leftovers he never got to eat.

But then he noticed that the kitchen light is on.

You’re there, sitting at the table in the oversized T-shirt you stole from him years ago, a half empty mug of tea in front of you. Hair pulled back in a loose knot, light shadows under your eyes telling him you’ve been up for a while.

You gesture toward the fridge. “Dinner’s in there. Still warm enough if you don’t wait.”

He nods, opens the fridge, pulls the plate out. The light catches his face as he set it on the counter. That’s when he notices your eyes tracking his face. A bruising just under his eye.

He silently pours water into a glass while you stir your tea slowly.

Then, without looking at you: “I can explain.“