He’d brought the box home like it meant nothing.

Just a few things from base, he’d said—some old gear, files they didn’t need anymore, books he hadn’t returned. You’d been the one to pry open the lid like a kid on holiday, curiosity outweighing whatever mild scowl he gave you from the kitchen.

Most of it was practical. Dusty folders. A pair of gloves with torn seams. Photographs that had long since lost their colour. Everything smelled faintly of metal and sand and distance.

You found the notebook near the bottom. Small, weathered, bound in dark canvas. Your fingers itched to open it before you even realized why. His handwriting lined the pages—spare, clipped, almost mechanical. Coordinates. Orders. Names and numbers. So much like him.

You flipped through it slowly, expecting only mission notes, maybe the odd detail that hinted at what his days had looked like when he was a world away. But then, halfway down the page—your name.

Just… there. Written plainly in the margin. No context. No explanation.

Then again. A few pages later. And again.

Your fingers stilled. You looked closer.

11:34 – She’s at work.

14:45 – It’s Friday so she’s getting coffee after work.

19:30 – Her favourite show is on.

Your chest ached, the breath catching before you could stop it.

There wasn’t much around the entries. Just your name. The time. A quiet ritual of remembering. You could picture him writing it, hunched over this little book in a bunker or a tent or some corner of a place you’d never see. No emotion in the ink, but all of it in the act.

Even when he was deployed—exhausted, worn, so far from everything soft—he’d made space for you. Time for you. Etched your name between briefings and battle plans like a tether back to the life he hadn’t let himself forget.

You were still holding the notebook when you heard his steps return. He came into the living room with the slow ease he always had at home—watchful, quiet, his presence filling the room without trying to.

You looked up at him, eyes already burning. He paused mid-step, gaze falling to the book in your hands. His jaw shifted, almost imperceptibly.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

He saw the tears in your eyes, the way your fingers curled around the edge of the page like you were holding something fragile.