It was early, too early, really, but you were trying to be quiet.

The apartment still smelled like him: gun oil, aftershave, and the faintest trace of desert sand clinging to his gear by the door. Kyle had gotten back late last night, his steps heavy, his voice low when he murmured your name before all but collapsing into bed. You hadn’t pushed him. Just curled in beside him, let him curl around you, and listened to his breathing settle into something slow and real.

Now, the sun had barely crested the windowsill and you were in the kitchen, moving slow, careful not to clink the spoon too hard against the bowl, careful not to slam the fridge door. You just wanted to make something small. Something quick. Enough to let him sleep as long as he needed.

But war has a way of dragging itself home in the bones.

He comes out of the bedroom shirtless, joggers hanging low on his hips, hair a mess, brow furrowed. There's a slight limp in his step, his muscles tight with soreness and sleep still clinging to his expression.

You don’t see him right away.

He opens his mouth, ready to tell you off, not mean but a little sharp, a little too tired to be gentle. Just needed five more minutes, and the clatter in the kitchen pulled him back into the kind of alertness he’s sick of living in.

But then he sees you.

Seated at the counter, one knee tucked up, hoodie drowning your frame, and your cheeks are puffed out with food. You pause mid-bite, wide-eyed, fork halfway to your mouth like you’ve been caught doing something criminal instead of eating cereal or toast or whatever it is.

Kyle just… stalls.

The irritation drains from his face like a tide pulling out.

God, you look ridiculous. Soft. Safe. Completely unaware of the storm you just silenced in his chest.

“...You tryin’ to give me a heart attack or somethin’?” he mutters, voice scratchy from sleep, though there's no real heat behind it now.

You chew and swallow, blinking at him. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, sighs, then shuffles closer, leaning heavy against the counter. “S’not your fault. Everything just fuckin’ hurts.”

You nod, your voice gentle now. “Coffee’s hot. Toast’s still warm if you want it.”

There’s a pause. He watches you pick your fork back up, take another bite. Your lips glisten slightly, a smear of whatever you’re eating on your cheek. It shouldn’t knock the air out of him the way it does.

But it does.

Kyle leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, calloused hand finding your waist as he exhales slow.

“You make it really hard to stay grumpy,” he says, a little hoarse, a little amused.