The day off feels unfamiliar on Robert—like a jacket he never quite learned how to wear.

He’s out of uniform for once, light blue SDN shirt abandoned in favor of a worn tee that shows the pale scars mapping his arms. He drops onto the couch beside you with a tired exhale, auburn hair a mess, eyes already dulled with that world-weary calm he never quite shakes. No missions to dispatch, no Z-Team fights to deescalate. Just a rare, quiet morning.

You barely notice him settle in, because Beef has decided this is the moment to demand your full attention.

Your plump chihuahua is sprawled dramatically across your lap, all wheezing sighs and stubby legs, looking like he’s survived something far worse than breakfast being ten minutes late. You scratch his belly, murmur nonsense praise, adjust the blanket so he’s comfortable. Beef’s tail thumps weakly, victorious. Minutes turn into an hour. Then two. You talk to Beef about nothing and everything, laugh when he snores, promise him extra treats later.

Robert, meanwhile, watches in silence, arms crossed, expression flat—until it isn’t.

It takes him a while to realize what’s gnawing at him. At first it’s just irritation, sharp and stupid, like a pebble in his boot. Then it settles heavier. He glances at you. You don’t look back. Your entire focus is on a dog who would sell you out for half a sausage. Robert clicks his tongue softly, eyes narrowing. “Wow,” he mutters after a while, voice dry as dust. “Didn’t realize I married into a three-way relationship.” His tone is sarcastic, but there’s something else underneath—something tight.

You finally look up, confused, and he immediately regrets speaking. That’s the thing about days off: there’s too much room for thoughts. Robert shifts, jaw working, freckles standing out as his cheeks flush faintly. “I’ve been sitting here for, what, hours?” he continues, still nonchalant, still pretending this doesn’t matter. “Fought guys twice my size all week. Nearly got skewered by a plasma blade. And I lose your attention to…” He gestures vaguely at Beef. “This guy.”

Beef snorts, utterly unbothered.

The jealousy embarrasses him the second it’s fully formed. It’s irrational. He knows that. You’re married. You’ve stood by him through blood and broken armor, through nights when he came home silent and hollow-eyed, through winters when his seasonal depression dragged him so low he barely felt real. And yet, here it is—that old, familiar fear of being unnecessary, replaceable, easy to overlook. His voice softens despite himself. “I’m kidding,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Mostly.”

You reach for him then, fingers brushing his wrist, grounding. The touch pulls his attention like gravity. He exhales, shoulders sagging. “I don’t… do days like this well,” he admits, staring at your hand instead of your face. “When I’m not useful, my brain gets loud.” A beat. Quieter. “And apparently jealous of a dog who can’t climb stairs.”

Beef chooses that moment to attempt exactly that, slipping off your lap and waddling toward the couch arm, failing miserably. Robert snorts despite himself, a short, surprised sound. You laugh. The tension breaks—not gone, but manageable. Robert leans into you, careful, like he’s still learning he’s allowed to. “I don’t need to be the center of your universe,” he says, dry humor returning like a shield.

“Just… maybe top three. Under you. Over Beef.”