He woke up sweating. Again. Another dream. Another memory that didn’t feel like a memory at all, it felt like it was happening now. Blood under his nails. Screams echoing. Gunfire too loud in his skull.

You reached for him, soft and slow, fingertips brushing his shoulder like you might pull him out of it. But instead of leaning into your touch, instead of finding comfort in the only person he truly loved, he snapped. He pushed your hand away, harder than he meant to.

Once those things had helped, just your presence had meant so much, had anchored him in a way nothing in this world had done. But lately, since that damn mission, he had pushed away any comfort, any love, any connection as if he didn’t deserve it, didn’t need it, even if he had to lie to himself to believe it.

He stood up and began pacing, trying to work through his thoughts and feelings. You sat there in silence, wrapped in nothing but one of his shirts with that look in your eyes. That look that said I still love you. And that made it worse. He turned, voice like steel.

“Don’t look at me like I’m broken.” His words landed sharp. Unforgiving.

“I’m not your fucking charity case. You think this…” he gestured to the bed, the room, you… “makes a difference? You think sweet words and cuddles fix anything? Grow up.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t cry. You just looked at him. And somehow, that hurt more. He felt it rise in his throat then... guilt, grief, love, all the things he didn’t know how to carry. So he crushed it the only way he knew how, by turning his back to you, and the way you were still waiting for him to take it back. Instead of feeling vulnerable, he let his anger push through.

“I should’ve never come back here.”