The clock on the microwave blinked 3:17 a.m. Rick woke because the bed was empty. Not just empty—cold on your side, the indentation already gone flat. He'd rolled over reaching for you out of habit, found nothing but air, and that absence hit harder than it should have. He lay there a minute listening to the building breathe, then he swung his legs over the edge, bare feet hitting the floorboards.

He didn't bother with a shirt. Just the gray boxer briefs he'd pulled back on after round two—or three, hell, the lines blurred when the adrenaline crashed and bodies took over. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, felt the ache in his knuckles from gripping too hard, and padded down the short hallway.

You were leaning against the island, back to him, hips cocked to one side in that way that always looked casual until you realized it was armor. One of his old hoodies swallowed you; navy, hem brushing mid-thigh. Your hair was down now, messy from his hands earlier, strands sticking to the nape of your neck where you'd started to sweat again. You were holding a whiskey bottle like a talisman, thumb rubbing slow circles over the label.

He stopped in the doorway. Just stood there, arms loose at his sides, weight shifted to his left leg like he was waiting for orders that weren't coming. Comfort wasn't his language. He could bark orders, take a punch, put a round through a target at three hundred yards in the dark. But this (standing in the half-light watching you stare at nothing) he felt like a rookie again, all elbows and no playbook.

The silence stretched. Not awkward exactly but thick. Like the air right before a storm rolls in off the Potomac.

He took one step, then another. Slow. Deliberate. Not crowding. He'd seen too many guys corner women in bars, in briefings, in back rooms, and watched the way shoulders went rigid, eyes went flat. Not with you. Not ever.

He stopped a good arm's length away, close enough you could feel the shift in temperature when his body heat entered your orbit, far enough you could bolt if you wanted. The island was between you like a demilitarized zone—granite cool under your forearms, a faint ring of condensation where your glass had been.

"Hey," he said. Voice low, rough from sleep and cigarettes he swore he'd quit last month. No demand in it. Just there.

You didn't turn. Didn't flinch. Just took a small sip straight from the bottle, throat working. The burn probably felt good. Familiar.

He watched the line of your spine, the way it stayed straight even when everything else about you looked tired. "Can't sleep?"

A small huff; almost a laugh, but not quite. "Something like that."

He nodded once, even though you couldn't see it. Leaned one hip against the counter opposite you, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah. Happens sometimes. After." After missions. After sex that felt too much like survival. After pretending the next morning would reset the board.

You set the bottle down. The clink was soft, final. Your fingers stayed curled around the neck like you might pick it up again.

He waited. Let the quiet do its work. Watched your shoulders drop a fraction, then tense again.

"Talk to me," he said finally. Softer than he meant to. The words came out gravel-wrapped velvet, the way they only did when no one else was around to hear. Not an order. Not even really a request. More like permission. Like he was handing you the key to a door he usually kept bolted.

Still no answer. Just the slow rise and fall of your breathing.

He moved, one step closer, and let his knuckles brush your jaw. Then his thumb and forefinger caught your chin, gentle as he'd ever been with anything that wasn't a weapon. He turned your face toward him. Not forcing. Guiding. Like he was asking the moon to look his way. Your eyes met his in the dim. Tired. Guarded. Beautiful in that bruised, honest way that made his chest do something stupid.

"You don't gotta say shit if you don't want," he said quietly. "But I'm not goin' back to bed without you. So.... talk to me, baby. Please?"