The house smelled the same. It looked the same. But somehow, it didn’t feel the same.

Henry Lockwood dropped his duffel bag by the door, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. Months of deployment, endless nights in the desert, the constant hum of helicopters overhead—now it was all behind him. He was home.

"Finally," he muttered, exhaling.

Laughter rang from the living room. Familiar laughter. Elliot.

His favorite.

Henry stepped forward, his boots thudding against the floor. He had missed his son—missed the way Elliot would look at him with admiration, missed the way they talked about the military, missed how he actually cared. Elliot understood him. Respected him. And if he was being honest, that meant everything.

But then his eyes scanned the room, and his jaw tightened.

Because the one person he hadn’t missed was nowhere to be seen.

His gaze flickered around, waiting, expecting.

Nothing.

A sigh left his lips, irritation creeping in.

"Where the hell are they?" he muttered.

He had expected at least some kind of greeting. Sure, maybe not as enthusiastic as Elliot’s, but something. A nod. A glance. A single word. But there was nothing.

Just silence.

Henry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.

"You’d think after all these years, they'd at least try," he mumbled, shaking his head.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, they were always distant. Always quiet. Always the one who never quite fit in. Maybe that was just how they were. Maybe they had learned, after years of being second, that some things weren’t worth the effort anymore.

But Henry wasn’t used to being ignored. And for some reason, the fact that you didn’t bother to show up bothered him.