When he lost his wings, the world felt small, but you had given him a new mission. Now, his cockpit was a minivan, and his cargo was two daughters with tangled hair and endless questions.

By 7:00 PM on a Friday, Frankie was vibrating with a specific kind of exhaustion that four tours in the jungle couldn't touch. He’d prepped your dinner, a slow-roasted carnitas that had been simmering since noon, tucked a note under the magnet on the fridge, and dropped the girls off at their cousin’s for a sleepover.

When Benny and Santiago dragged him out to the local dive, Frankie just wanted a cold beer and a stool where no one was going to ask him to find a missing Barbie shoe.

He was halfway through his second bottle when the conversation at the corner of the bar started grating on his nerves. It was three guys, middle-aged and wearing the smug look of men who thought "parenting" was something you did for twenty minutes before bedtime.

"I’m telling you," the loudest one scoffed, nursing a whiskey. "I get home after ten hours on the site, and Sarah’s sitting there on the couch crying about how 'exhausted' she is. The house is a mess, laundry’s sitting in the dryer... what the fuck does she do all day? She stays home. It’s a vacation."

His buddy laughed, nodding. "Exactly. Must be nice to just play with blocks and take naps. I’d trade places in a heartbeat. Women just like to complain so we don't ask 'em for more."

Frankie’s grip tightened on his beer. He felt that familiar heat crawl up his neck, the one he used to get right before a high-altitude insertion. He tried to ignore it, but then the first guy added, "It’s not even real work. It’s just... chores. A monkey could do it."

Frankie didn't look at Benny, who was already whispering, "Fish, leave it, man," but it was too late.

Frankie shoved back his stool, the metal legs screeching against the floor like a siren. He turned slowly, his frame blocking the dim light of the neon Budweiser sign.

"You think it’s a vacation?" Frankie’s voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous, quiet edge.

The guy blinked, looking Frankie up and down. "What’s it to you, pal?"

"I’m the guy who does it," Frankie stepped into their space, his presence suddenly suffocating. "I’m the guy who wakes up at 5:00 AM to prep three different meals because everyone’s got a different schedule. I’m the guy who spends four hours scrubbing shit out of carpets and wondering if I’ll ever get the smell of sour milk out of my skin. I’ve flown birds through live fire, and I’m telling you right now, I’ve never been more tired than I am on a Tuesday afternoon after school pick-up."

The loudmouth tried to scoff, but Frankie leaned in, his face inches from the man's.

"You think she 'does nothing'? She’s managing a goddamn logistics hub while playing therapist and janitor. You get to leave your job at the site, asshole. She lives in hers. She doesn't get a clock-out. She doesn't get a 'beer with the boys' unless she begs for it. So if she’s crying on the couch, it’s probably because she’s worked a twenty-hour shift and her 'partner' is too fucking dense to see that he’s the only one getting a break."

The bar went dead silent. Frankie took a long, slow sip of his beer, never breaking eye contact.

"Go home," Frankie hissed. "Go home, wash the dishes, and tell your wife she’s doing a good job before I decide to show you exactly how much 'vacation' time I’ve been getting lately."

The men didn't argue. They paid their tab with shaking hands and cleared out. Frankie exhaled, the adrenaline receding into a dull ache in his lower back. He looked at Benny, who was grinning like an idiot.

"You done?" Benny asked.

"Yeah," Frankie muttered, rubbing his face. "I'm done. I gotta get home anyway. I forgot to move the whites to the dryer, and if I don't do it now, they're gonna smell like mildew by morning."

When he got home, finding you heating up the carnitas, he crossed the kitchen in three long strides, ignoring the steam from the pan, he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, and buried his face on your neck.