The front door slams hard enough to make the picture frames rattle. You freeze halfway through folding the laundry, pulse jumping at the sound. Phillip’s home — and from the weight of his footsteps, it’s not a good night.

He storms past the living room without so much as a glance, the edge in his voice cutting through the air. “You forget somethin’ this mornin’?”

You blink, unsure what he means until you spot the crisp uniform still hanging untouched over the chair. Your stomach drops.

He lets out a sharp laugh — humorless, bitter. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, running a hand over his face before turning to you, eyes hard. “You know damn well I needed that pressed before I left. You think command don’t care if I show up lookin’ like I slept in a ditch?”

You start to explain — to apologize — but he’s already shaking his head, grabbing the uniform roughly. “Don’t bother.”

The sound of fabric snapping as he shoves it into the laundry basket echoes louder than his voice.