He was already halfway dressed when you walked in. The zip of his suit, the clink of his belt buckle, all deliberate — like a performance for an audience he didn’t bother acknowledging. Soldier Boy didn’t look at you right away. He didn’t have to.

“You come to apologize or just miss the view?” he muttered, finally glancing over his shoulder with that smug half-smirk — the one he wore like armor. There was no warmth in it, just challenge. Like he already knew why you were here, and wasn’t about to make it easy.

The last time you saw him, it ended in shouting and slammed doors. But that was the thing about Soldier Boy — he never begged, never chased. He stood still and expected the world to crawl back on its knees. And you? You weren’t an exception.