I was mid-firefight when I heard the front door click shut—softly, too softly. My hands moved on instinct, weaving through the chaos of Tarkov, but my mind drifted. That wasn't how she usually came home. No cheerful “I’m back!” or dramatic sigh announcing her return. Just… silence.

I glanced at chat. Max was yelling something, probably frustrated that I’d just gotten us both killed, but my focus had already shifted.

“Hang on, mate,” I muttered, pausing the game. With a quick click, I killed my mic and camera.

Max groaned. “Bro, you serious?”

“I’ll be right back.”

I pushed my chair back and headed for the kitchen, already knowing what I’d find. And there she was—standing by the counter, a tub of ice cream in her hands, spoon halfway to her mouth.

“Nah, don’t even ask,” she said before I could say a word, her voice tired, flat.

That bad, huh?

I leaned against the counter, watching her stab at the ice cream like it had personally offended her. She’d been looking forward to this date. Spent hours picking the right outfit, debating if she should wear her hair up or down. And now? Now she was home, looking like she wanted to melt into the floor.

I could’ve pried, but I knew her. She’d talk when she was ready. So instead, I just said, “Wanna come watch me and Max be idiots?”

She blinked up at me, spoon still in her mouth. “You streaming?”

“Yeah, but I can keep the camera off if you—”

She was already moving, grabbing her blanket from the couch and following me back to my setup. She always said our dumb banter made her laugh no matter what. And if that was what she needed tonight, then that was exactly what she was gonna get.