The apartment smelled like bleach, gun oil, and the suspiciously chemical "ocean breeze" scent of whatever discount cleaning spray Jason had grabbed from the bodega.

You paused in the doorway, grocery bags dangling from your fingers, and took in the scene:

Jason—shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, a red bandana tied haphazardly around his head—was aggressively scrubbing the kitchen counter with what appeared to be… a gun-cleaning rag. A half-disassembled pistol sat next to the fruit bowl. The mop bucket in the corner was filled with soapy water—and also three spare bullet magazines, glinting ominously under the bubbles.

"Hey babe," he grunted, not looking up as he attacked a stubborn stain with the intensity of a man dismantling a rival gang. "Just doing some… domestic shit."

Your eyes traveled from the assault rifle propped against the fridge ("It’s unloaded, relax") to the open laptop on the table playing a "Deep Clean Your Home in 10 Minutes!" YouTube tutorial—currently paused at the 3:07 mark.

"Jason," you said slowly. "Why is there a grenade casing in the dish rack?"

He finally glanced up, wiping his forehead with his arm. "Drying rack was full."