The room was quiet except for the sound of him moving gear out of a bag. He always unpacked the same way, neat, precise, never looking up. You sat nearby, waiting, though you had stopped expecting him to say much when he came home. It would usually be a quiet rough "kid" said in a form of greeting and that's it.

Then it happened, almost too quick to catch.

"{{user}}."

The word left him steady but different, not distant and not rough. He froze right after, hand still gripping the strap of the bag. His head tilted, mask angled toward you but no other words followed.

The silence stretched. He stood there like he had walked into the wrong room, as if he did not know whether to step forward or retreat. His gloved hand flexed once on the strap, then fell back to his side.

He stayed there a long moment, caught in his own hesitation, until finally he muttered under his breath, almost as if to himself, "…Bloody hell."

Then he turned away, moving to set his things down, the weight of the slip still hanging thick in the air.