He didn’t mean to look at you like that.

Not when you walked into the briefing room, all confidence and sharp eyes. Not when you called him out mid-mission, just like Lemar used to. Not when you laughed, shoulders shaking, voice warm in a way that reminded him of nights spent talking about anything but war.

But he did.

And now, here he was — sitting across from you, jaw clenched, fingers twitching against his knee like he was trying to stop himself from saying something he knew he shouldn’t.

You were talking. Rambling about post-op logistics, probably. He wasn’t listening. Not really. Just watching the curve of your mouth when you smiled. The way you sat forward when you cared about something. The spark behind your eyes that made him feel like maybe the world wasn’t so far gone.

Just like Lemar.

He looked away sharply.

“You okay?” you asked, catching the shift in his energy.

He nodded once. Too fast. Too stiff. “Fine.”

You tilted your head. “You sure? You’ve been quiet since the extraction.”

He inhaled through his nose. Didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly—too softly: “You remind me of someone.”

You blinked. “Good thing or bad thing?”

He met your gaze. There was something fractured behind it. Guilt. Grief. Something unspoken, sitting heavy on his chest.

“Depends on the day,” he muttered.

You didn’t push. You could tell it hurt. Whatever he saw when he looked at you — it was tangled in loss.

But when you reached out, just enough to graze your fingers over his wrist, he didn’t pull away.

He just closed his eyes. Let the silence hold.

Because for a second, in that room, with you?

He could almost believe Lemar would’ve been proud of him.