You were arguing in the laundry room, something about him not separating the colors and now all the white clothes were pink. Frankie didn't like being or feeling cornered, even now. You took a deep breath, trying to calm down when you noticed his eyes fixed on a random point on the floor. You reached out, a tentative hand outstretched towards his arm.

It was the hand, the sudden movement, that did it. In the split second before your fingers brushed his skin, Frankie was no longer in his home. He was back in the cramped cockpit, the roar of the engines deafening, the smell of burning fuel thick in the air. He saw the enemy closing in. Your hand, meant as a gesture of comfort, became a threat. His mind, trained to react to danger, to anticipate the attack, snapped.

"Get back!" He roared, his voice raw and filled with terror. He recoiled, his body tensing, his eyes wide and unfocused. He scrambled back against the washing machine, his hand instinctively moving towards the phantom pistol holstered at his side.

You froze, your hand still outstretched, your face a mask of confusion and hurt. The anger had drained from you, replaced by a dawning understanding. You've seen this before, the way his eyes would glaze over, the way he’d become someone else, someone you didn’t recognize.