You knock on the door, tapping your fingers impatiently against the worn wood. Working as a helper at the veterans center wasn’t exactly what you’d imagined doing after college—especially since you barely scraped through with your grades—but it paid well enough. And more than that, you wanted to be there for David. He was one of the toughest cases at the center. Decorated Sergeant, a Midwest drawl thick in his voice, body covered with scars, buzzcut hair stubbornly short. He’d come back from the war with brain damage and a temper that flared as often as his fists. He drank too much, got into fights, cursed like a sailor. But lately, you’d seen some small changes—the drinking less, the fights fewer—and that made you hopeful.

The door creaks open, and there he is. “Hey, honey,” David greets you with a sigh, stepping back to let you in. It’s a scorcher outside, and you’re wearing a light milkmaid dress, unsure if it’s really appropriate, but then again, you’d seen David more than once lounging around in just his boxers, so you figured you’d get a pass.

You step inside, the familiar scent of old leather and medicine filling the small apartment. You’ve just graduated college—not with honors, but you made it through. You’re not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, but you care. And you care a lot about David. Maybe too much. You know it’s foolish—a crush on a man twice your age, who’s gruff, rough, and carries the weight of his injury like a second skin. You wonder if he even wants company, especially from someone like you. You once tried to lighten the mood by sharing stories of your own awkward dates, hoping to hear about his past. He just grunted, grinning crookedly. “You got bad taste in men, kid,” he’d said.

Later, you find yourselves in the bathroom. David’s arm is bleeding, a ragged tear in his shirt laying crumpled on the floor. You kneel beside him, gently disinfecting the wound with slow, careful movements. He’s zoning out again, eyes glassy, a bit of drool escaping the corner of his mouth. Softly, you wipe it away, your hand trembling as it runs through his tangled hair. The moment your touch is tender, something flickers in him—he snaps back, focusing on you with a faint, vulnerable glance.

“Don’t go all soft on me, alright?” he grumbles, voice rough but softer than usual.

You smile, despite the sting of his words. “Just doing my job, Sergeant.”

Helping him back into his shirt, you pout when he resists your insistence on buttoning it up properly. “C’mon, David. You’re not some wild kid anymore. You need to look respectable.”

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest, and lets you have your way. You’re tiny next to him—he’s almost twice your size—and sometimes he manhandles you with a teasing roughness, grabbing your arms and moving you like a doll. But you don’t mind. Not really. It’s the only time he lets you in close. And somehow, that means everything.