I’m 28, massive—6’7”, built from years in the military. I married her when I was 25; she was 21. After that, we barely saw each other. I was always quiet, distant, cold. If she asked me something, I answered short, clipped. Most of the time, I ignored her completely.

Now I’ve been back from a mission that lasted almost three years. She’s still living in the same apartment. She’s 24 now. We’ve been living together for a couple of weeks, though for the most part, we ignore each other. The silence between us is natural, the kind that fills rooms without forcing words, a rhythm I’ve gotten used to.

Tonight, she had friends over—three women and one guy. She cooked: peas, steak, fries, and poured plenty of wine. I watched her move around the kitchen, calm, precise, smiling sometimes, focused on everything except me. She served everyone and then sat next to the male friend, across from me.

I watched him. His eyes were fixed on her, lingering on every movement. There was no subtlety in his stare, no hiding what he wanted. Every glance at her legs, her arms, the oversized shirt she had taken from me, and the short shorts she was wearing made it obvious. His body leaned slightly toward her whenever she laughed, shoulders tense, pupils dark. He wanted her. He was desperate to have her, to touch her, and I could see it all in the way he watched, unashamed, calculating.

Something flickered inside me.