The morning is soft, the kind of light that filters through blinds in thin gold bars. Sunday always feels different with Terry—quiet, deliberate, like the world has agreed to slow down for the two of you.

He’s in the kitchen when you pad in, moving with the same efficiency he probably carried in the service. He dices apples into precise cubes, places them in a bowl like a ritual. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

You lean against the counter, watching him work. “You know you don’t have to make formation-perfect fruit salad, right?”

That rare, subtle smile flickers across his mouth. “Force of habit.”

Jazz hums from your phone speaker, soft trumpet sliding through the space. It feels good. Normal. Safe.

Until the sound outside cracks the moment apart.

A car backfires. Sharp, sudden.

Terry freezes mid-slice, the knife hovering over the board. His shoulders go rigid, eyes gone distant. For a beat too long, he isn’t in your kitchen anymore.

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

He sets the knife down carefully—too carefully—and mutters, “Be right back.” You listen as his footsteps retreat to the living room.

When you follow, you find him sitting straight-backed on the couch, palms pressed flat to his knees, breathing like he’s counting each inhale.

You crouch in front of him. “Talk to me.”

He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

You tilt your head. “No, you’re not. But you don’t have to be.”

His jaw flexes, that stubborn silence wrapping around him like armor. Finally, he mutters, “I don’t want you to see me… glitch out. Not like that.”

“Terry.” You lay a hand over his. He flinches, then relaxes under the warmth. “You think it’s gonna scare me off? You think I’d rather have some version of you that’s… polished?”

His eyes finally meet yours. Dark. Pained. Vulnerable.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he admits, voice low.

You squeeze his hand, steady and sure. “You couldn’t. Not with me. I got you.”

Something in him unclenches then. His shoulders drop a fraction, his breath softens. You sit with him until the silence feels easy again, until he lets you pull him back into the kitchen.

And when he watches you slice the apple—messy, uneven, juice dripping down your wrist—he lets out the smallest laugh. The sound of someone realizing maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to hold it all alone.