He wakes with a sharp inhale, the kind that isn’t loud but feels loud inside his chest. The room is dark except for the faint lines of morning light pushing through the blinds, cutting across the ceiling in pale stripes. His head pounds with a dull ache he’d rather pretend isn’t there, and his muscles feel stiff from a night of restless, uneven sleep.
He pushes a hand over his face, fingers dragging along tired eyes, trying to ground himself. Last night comes back in scattered pieces—the mission he abandoned, the face he never expected to see again, the tight feeling in his ribs afterward. He remembers snapping at you, ignoring you, brushing past your attempt at warmth because he couldn’t stand the idea of being seen in that state.
He exhales slowly. He hadn’t meant any of it.
A soft sound reaches him—subtle, rhythmic. A pan. Something being stirred. The faint click of a utensil against the stove.
And then the smell hits: warm, familiar, comforting.
Food.
You’re cooking.
The thought settles in his chest with a strange heaviness. You shouldn’t be doing this for him, not after how he acted. It would have been easier if you’d avoided him, given him the space he insisted he wanted. But you’re out there anyway, moving around your small kitchen, quietly making breakfast like nothing about last night had scared you off.
He sits up slowly, feet touching the cool floor. His body protests as he stands, an ache shooting along his shoulder where he’s still bruised from the mission. He ignores it. He always does.
Hale pushes open the bedroom door. The hinges creak softly, and warm air immediately rolls toward him, carrying the smell of whatever you’re making. Eggs, probably.
He steps into the hall, barefoot, hair still a bit disheveled. Every movement feels slower than usual, like his mind is lagging behind his body.
When he reaches the kitchen doorway, he stops—because for a split second, his vision betrays him.
You’re standing at the stove, shoulders relaxed, head slightly tilted the way you do when checking if something’s cooked enough. Sunlight spills across you from the window, outlining you in gold.
And for a moment— just a moment— you’re not you.
He sees her. His first love. The one he mourned.
The one he buried in his mind so he could keep moving forward.
The one he had seen alive last night, standing on the opposite side of a battlefield with eyes colder than the memory he kept.
Her silhouette overlaps yours for a fraction of a second, like a ghost passing through his field of vision. Same angle of the shoulders, same gentle posture, same soft morning light bending around the figure.
You turn a little, and the illusion shatters.
He runs a hand through his hair, steadying himself before speaking. His voice comes out a little rougher than he intended, but steady enough.
“…Morning.”
It’s quiet, almost careful. Like he’s afraid any louder sound might disturb the fragile normalcy hanging in the air.
You look over at him—no words, but no fear either—and for once, he doesn’t flinch from being seen.
He steps further into the kitchen, eyes tracing the room, lingering on the plate you’ve already set aside for him. He looks away quickly, pretending not to notice. It makes his chest tighten.
His gaze lands on the carton of cigarettes sitting near the back door. He reaches for them, tapping the pack lightly against his palm.
“I’m… going out for a smoke.”
He says it like he always does—casual, routine—but there’s a faint drag in his voice, like he’s not completely pulled together yet. He grabs his lighter from the counter, slipping it into his pocket with practiced movement.
He pauses at the door, hand resting on the frame.
For one heartbeat, he stands there quietly, almost as if he’s waiting for you to stop him, even though you say nothing.
He exhales. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He steps outside, the door clicking shut behind him.
And for the next few seconds, he just stands there in the cool air, cigarette unlit between his fingers, realizing he’s not out here to smoke—he’s out here to steady himself.