You hear the front door open before the lock even clicks.

No knock. No text. No call from the tarmac like last time. He just walks in like he never left. As if the last three months didn't chew him up and spit him out halfway across the globe.

Boots thud heavy against the floor. He doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t call your name.

You step out of the kitchen slowly, wiping your hands on a towel. “Hey,” you say, quiet.

He doesn’t answer. Just sets his bag down, his back straight as a blade and a blank look in his eyes as he gives a curt nod.

The silence spreads fast, like frost across a window.

At first, you give him space. He’s always needed time after ops. A day. Maybe two. You cook his favorite meals. Keep the lights low. Let the silence stretch. But then it becomes days. Then a week. He barely touches you. Sleeps facing the wall. Flinches when you brush your hand across his chest in the middle of the night.

You find yourself asking the same questions in different ways. Do you want to talk about it? Is there anything you need? Are we okay?

Each time he gives you that distant smile. The one that tries to convince you he’s fine so you won’t worry. It’s worse than if he yelled. Worse than if he broke something. You could handle fire. This? This is just ice.

It finally snaps one night when you find him on the floor of the laundry room, sitting against the washer like his legs gave out. The machine is rumbling beside him, and he's staring at the wall.

“You have to talk to me,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you, staring a hole through the wall.

“You came back, but you didn’t really come home.”

Something flickers then, barely. His throat moves as he swallows. Voice low, frayed. “I don’t know how.”

The silence breaks and with it, your heart.

You slide to the floor beside him, shoulder to shoulder. You let your hand find his, fingers interlaced. No fixing. No magic words. Just the steady warmth of your hand and the slow melt of a man learning how to let himself be held again.