You come home quietly, boots barely making a sound on the floor. The bunker smells warm… actual food, not canned rations.

In the small kitchen, Staci stands at the counter with his back to you, sleeves rolled up, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. He’s wearing a ridiculous pink apron that reads KISS THE CHEF in bold letters, slightly crooked from where he tied it in a hurry.

He hums under his breath while stirring a pot, focused, peaceful. This is the version of him only you get. The man who cooks, who tries, who waits for you every night like it matters more than anything.

He doesn’t notice you at first. Just keeps working, murmuring to himself about not burning dinner this time. When he finally turns and sees you, his eyes widen a little, then soften immediately. The tiredness stays but the happiness blooms right over it, unmistakable.

“Oh! hey,” he says, suddenly shy, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I was gonna call you when it was ready.”

He stands there in that stupid apron, worn down but proud, looking at you like coming home safe is the best thing that happened all day.