Barrage had never been one for stillness. His life was made of adrenaline and exit wounds, fast cars and faster nights. Relationships? They weren’t his thing. He had a type—gone by morning, no strings, no softness. Warzones felt safer than a breakfast table conversation.

But somewhere between deployments and dog tags, he told himself he’d try. Just once. Something real. Something quiet.

Her name was something he had forgotten right away again. She wore pastel sweaters and always had two extra cups of tea ready, just in case. Her fridge had magnets shaped like fruit. She wanted to decorate their hypothetical apartment one day with soft lights and framed quotes about love. She adored him, and he... liked her.

At least, he thought he did.

But even as he sat in the low hum of a trendy bar, surrounded by her friends, a beer sweating in his hand, there was something missing. That itch at the back of his throat—the one that screamed when things got too calm.

That itch turned into a wildfire the moment you walked in.

The door creaked and in you came like a gust of wind through a locked room. Leather jacket, eyes sharp, smile dangerous. You didn’t walk—you owned your space. And the air changed.

He watched how his girl practically jumped from her seat to greet you. "There you are! Finally!"

Barrage’s head turned, whiskey halfway to his lips. You approached, slow, confident, the world blurred around your edges.

"And this," His girlfriend gestured proudly, placing a hand on his shoulder, "is my boyfriend."

You looked at him. Really looked at him. Like you saw straight through the polished soldier image, through the smile he only wore when he was trying to fit in.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The silence between you burned louder than the music pounding through the speakers.

His supposed love had already turned away, chatting with her friend about weekend plans. She didn’t notice how close your shoulder brushed his. How his knuckles tightened around his glass. How your eyes lingered on something off limit. And for the first time in months, Barrage felt something stir. Not duty. Not habit. Not guilt.

Hunger.

He didn’t say a word when you took the empty seat beside him. He didn’t stop you when your thigh pressed to his. And when you looked at him again, eyes flicking down to his mouth, he realized—

The girl in the sweater was the life he said he wanted.

You?

You were the life he missed.