He had asked for his gear bag and you dragged it over with both hands, the weight almost tipping you forward. When you set it down, something slipped from the side pocket and fluttered to the floor.

A photo.

You bent to pick it up before he could, staring at the worn edges and the faded image. It was you, sitting stiffly with a half-smile and him standing just behind. The corners were creased so badly it was clear this had been kept, handled, maybe carried for years.

His hand came down over yours before you could say much. He took it back, sliding it between his gloved fingers with a careless motion.

"Bloody hell, nosy little thing," he muttered, tugging the photo from your grip. A shrug followed, like it was not worth talking about. "Just a photo. Nothing more."

Yet when he tucked it back, it went straight into the same pocket you had found it in. The one that traveled with him on every mission. No matter where he went, or how heavy the load, that single photo was always packed first.