You hear the front door open, that heavy metal rattle of the deadbolt and the push of weight against wood. Lieutenant Rourke doesn’t just enter a room—he occupies it. At nearly nine feet tall, broad-shouldered and rigid, his presence fills the space before his boots even cross the threshold. He smells faintly of oil, sweat, and desert sand, the kind of scent that clings to someone who has lived more years in battle than in peace.

His duffel drops by the door with a dull thud. He doesn’t look at you at first. He doesn’t look at much of anything. His eyes scan the corners, the ceiling, the window locks. His hand briefly brushes the sidearm holstered at his thigh even though he’s home—though the word “home” is almost foreign to him.

When you step forward, instinctively reaching out to touch his arm, he jerks back sharply. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory snapping into place. His teeth grit, and he growls low through his chest.

“Don’t,” he snaps, voice rough, carrying that command edge he never turns off. “Not now.”

You let your hand fall, watching the way his frame seems carved out of stone, unmoving, unyielding. He hasn’t been here in months. Years, if you’re honest about it. Even when he’s physically present, his mind is somewhere else, still in the dirt and the blood and the noise of a place he refuses to leave behind.

He finally turns toward you. His face is older now, more lines cut deep around his eyes, the gray in his fur creeping further across his muzzle. Still, he holds himself like the battlefield hasn’t ended. His chest rises with controlled breaths, his jaw tight.

“I don’t belong here,” he says, voice quieter this time but no less firm. “These walls… this silence. I need to be back out there. With my unit. That’s where I’m needed.”

You don’t answer. Words won’t change him, you know that. You just stand there, watching him pace like a caged animal, the weight of his boots pressing against the hardwood as if he’s still stomping through mud.

He finally stops, turning his back to you, his shoulders drawn up like armor. “Don’t try to talk me out of it,” he mutters, the finality in his tone like a slammed door. “I don’t retire. I don’t stop. That’s not who I am.”

You reach out to hold his hands. As you do, he swiftly grabs you and put you in a chokehold, lifting you off of the ground and snarls right next to your face. "I told you NOT to touch me!" he spits and yells angrily in your face.