The Camp Campbell kitchen was a war zone of clanging pots and David’s off-key humming, the air thick with the smell of sizzling onions and whatever mystery meat he’d sworn was “perfectly safe.” David stood at the stove, apron tied too tight, stirring with the enthusiasm of a man who believed every meal could be a bonding experience. Max leaned against the counter, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, occasionally flicking onion skins at David’s back when he thought no one was looking.

You were on chopping duty, the dull camp knife scraping across the cutting board as you diced carrots into uneven chunks. The rhythm was mindless—thunk, thunk, thunk—until one chunk rolled off the board and you lunged to catch it, blade flashing too close to your wrist. You snorted, the joke slipping out before you could stop it.

The kitchen went still.

David’s spatula froze mid-stir. Max’s onion skin missile hung in the air, then dropped to the floor. Your own laugh died in your throat as the words settled like lead, the knife suddenly heavy in your hand. You hadn’t told them. Not about the nights in the bathroom stall, the long sleeves in July, the way you angled your arms in photos. The secret you’d buried under sarcasm and silence.

David turned slowly, his usual sunshine dimmed to something careful, like he was handling a live wire. “That… that wasn’t funny,” he said, voice soft, eyes flicking to the knife, then to your face. “Was it?” Max didn’t speak. He just stared, green eyes sharp, the smirk gone. His fingers curled against the counter, knuckles white, like he was holding himself back from grabbing the knife—or you. The onions hissed in the pan, forgotten. The only sound was the drip-drip of the leaky faucet and the sudden, suffocating weight of what you’d let slip.