A few days ago he had come back from a mission and had been through hell. He was exhausted in the living room. He had hardly gotten up from the couch since he had arrived, hadn't even showered, hadn't even blinked for sleep. His few hours of short sleep had been interrupted by nightmares.

Alcohol bottles, food wrappers, a broken glass on the floor, his gun and gun belt on the coffee table, his boots scattered in a corner, his house in chaos.

If you had been with him, it would have been easier to carry on. He would sleep better, he wouldn't need alcohol, but you weren't there. Why couldn't a man who could cope with so many things cope with a woman leaving? What nonsense, he muttered to himself.

It was only minutes later that he realized the doorbell was ringing. His brain wouldn't shut up and he couldn't silence it. He got up from the couch and shuffled to the door. He opened it without looking at the peephole and locked eyes with the person he hadn't expected to see. “{{user}}?” he muttered, frowning.