The room was quiet in the way the apartment was.

A single lamp was on, throwing a low amber glow across the floor and the edge of the bed.

Chris came in last. The door shut behind him with a careful click rather than a slam. He stood there a moment, shoulders heavy with the last few hours of adrenaline finally draining out of his system. His gear followed the same routine it always did. Rifle first, cleared and leaned where he could reach it if he had to. Vest next. Magazine pouches emptied, knife set on the nightstand. The small, deliberate movements of someone who had done this after too many operations to count.

Only when the room was quiet again did he look over at the bed. You were awake, propped slightly against the pillows. The blankets were pulled up to your ribs, the faint line of the surgical scar visible where the shirt had shifted at your lower back when you turned earlier.

Chris noticed it immediately. He always did.

He stripped off most of his layers, running a hand through damp hair that still smelled faintly like gun oil and cold air. The mattress dipped when he sat on the edge, heavy and familiar. “You should be asleep,” he muttered into your temple, voice low from disuse. It wasn’t an order, just an observation.

You shifted slightly when he finally slid under the blankets beside you. Chris settled on his side automatically, one arm slipping around your waist, the movement practiced but careful without being hesitant. He didn’t hover over you like you were fragile. Never had. You were cleared, healed, back in the field if you wanted it. But he knew what the metal in your spine did when the temperature dropped.

His hand found the scar almost absentmindedly, palm resting over it through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch wasn’t clinical. It was familiar. His thumb traced the length of it once, slowly, feeling the slightly different texture beneath the cloth. Still there. Still real.

“You cold?” he asked quietly. You probably weren’t. Not yet. But Chris shifted closer anyway, pulling you back against his chest so the heat from him settled along your spine. Steady and warm, like he was anchoring something in place.

He had seen what that mission did. The medevac. The surgery. The months of recovery where you refused to quit even when the doctors suggested it. Chris didn’t bring it up. Didn’t treat you differently.

But when the room got cold, he always made sure you didn’t feel it first. His breathing slowed after a while, the last of the tension leaving his shoulders. Even asleep, he kept close against your back.

It wasn’t pity and it wasn’t worry in the way people assumed. Maybe guilt or remorse. He didn’t think about it too much, just did what he could to make sure you never felt that pain again.