The kitchen on base was unusually quiet for once; no clatter of utensils, no radio buzzing with chatter from the shift. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the faint citrus smell of something vaguely fruity. You stood at the counter finishing up your own task when you heard someone muttering under his breath near the fridge.

Kyle appeared a moment later, rolling an orange slowly between his palms like it had done something personally offensive. His brows were knitted together in a dramatic frown that didn’t quite match the casual clothes he wore off-duty, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a beanie tossed carelessly on his head.

He looked… conflicted. Maybe frustrated. Maybe both.

He took another glance at the fruit as if debating whether to throw it, squeeze it, or interrogate it. His expression was so over-the-top serious that you nearly laughed. The man had survived firefights, explosions, and black-ops nightmares with a straight face; and yet here he was, losing a silent battle against a piece of produce.

Kyle let out a slow, irritated exhale and started walking toward you. Heavy, deliberate steps. He was absolutely doing the dramatic build-up on purpose. The closer he got, the deeper the frown grew, until he stopped right in front of you, holding the orange like it was a cursed object.

“Peeling is the worst thing ever, isn’t it?” he asked, voice carrying the weight of someone discussing geopolitical crises rather than breakfast. He lifted the orange again as if to prove his point. “It’s so annoying.” He added the last part with a sigh loud enough to echo off the counters—just to make sure you heard it.

He placed the fruit on the counter with a little more force than necessary, fingers tapping beside it as though he’d already given up on the task entirely. Then he glanced at you, the frown fading into a smaller, softer smirk—like he knew exactly how ridiculous he was being but refused to admit it.

But he didn’t give you the full explanation he just pushed the orange slightly toward you with one finger, as if passing you a live grenade.