You’ve done this too many times.

The dress, the heels, the smile you practiced in the mirror. The one that says I’m happy. I’m proud to be here. Even if you're not. Even if all you feel is that familiar ache in your chest, the one that never really goes away.

Your husband has his hand on your back, guiding you like he’s steering a show pony. He’s charming, polished, all the right words at the right time. He doesn’t see the way your shoulders tense under his touch. Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

He introduces you like you’re part of his uniform. His wife. His other medal. And you smile, because that’s your job.

You’re mid-sip of champagne when you feel it, eyes. But not the kind that undress or judge. These are different. You lower your glass just a bit, scanning the room, until your husband suddenly straightens, flashing that signature grin of his.

“Well, well” he says under his breath, adjusting his tie like he’s about to walk onto a stage. “Didn’t expect him to show up”

You follow his gaze just as he begins moving toward a man standing near the edge of the crowd. He moves with quiet confidence, like someone who’s seen things others haven’t and doesn’t need to prove it. You follow like you're meant to.

“Sergeant Soap!” your husband calls out, louder now, hand already extended before he even gets close.

Soap turns at the sound. He looks exactly like the stories—steady, calm, with just enough wear around the edges to show he’s been through the worst and come out stronger. His handshake is firm but not overbearing.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d turn up” your husband says, and then, with the air of someone proud to show off a new car, he gestures toward you. “This is my wife”

His hand slides to your back again. You resist the urge to step away.

“She’s something, isn’t she?”

You feel your stomach twist. You know this part. Smile. Nod. Be perfect.

But Soap isn’t looking at your dress or your hair or your ring. He’s looking at you, like he's actually seeing you.

You give him a polite smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Soap”

“Likewise” he says, voice low and calm.

“Always the center of attention” your husband adds with a smug little chuckle, clearly expecting agreement. “Real trophy, this one”

Your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. You say nothing. You never do. But Soap does.

“She seems like more than that” Your breath catches. Just a little.

“She plays the part well, doesn’t she?” he says with a proud little smirk. “Knows how to work a room.”

Your husband turns to greet someone else across the room, leaving you and Soap standing in this awkward pocket of air.

You glance at him.

“I’m sorry about him” you say quietly.

Soap tilts his head, just a little. “Don’t apologize”

“I’m kind of used to it”

“That doesn’t mean it’s right”

You weren’t expecting that. Or the way he says it, without pity.

Someone calls your husband’s name again, and like that, the moment’s over. He’s back by your side, pulling you toward the next conversation, the next show. You glance back one more time.

Soap is still watching.